Duality
by AnnabelleLee87
Summary: Sam and Dean are on a hunt when Sam wakes up to find that he's turned into a woman. They boys must figure out what happened to Sam and finish their hunt, all the while dealing with the unresolved sexual tension between. Genderswap
1. Chapter 1

"_Drink," he laughed loudly, causing the purple liquid to slosh in the glass, spilling over the sides._

_Blood oozed from the open hole on the freshly wounded animal. She brought it to her lips, sucking wildly. The thick liquid trickled down from the sides of her mouth as she bit into its flesh. It screamed as she sank her teeth into it and she chuckled, relishing the sound of the defeated, the taste of victory—even if it was a small one._

"_That's it, baby, drink," her master encouraged her._

"_So fucking good...but I need more."_

"_We need more," chanted a chorus of woman behind her._

_Warm, naked breasts pressed up against her back. A set of teeth dragged across her bare flesh, sending a shiver through her. Suddenly the weight of another body was on her from the front. A wet tongue danced over her stomach, licking up the trail of blood that was flowing from her mouth to her waist._

"_That's why we're here."_

A horn honked loudly, and the motel window did little to keep the sound from penetrating the small room. Sam slid his head under the pillow, trying, and failing, to block out the intrusion. Sirens squealed immediately after. His head was _throbbing._ He squeezed his eyes shut, wiggling his body deep beneath the covers.

He wasn't ready for this—wasn't ready to start the day yet. He couldn't have been asleep for more than four hours, and after last night, he needed more like ten hours. He silently prayed that Dean was still asleep, or gone, or too stubborn to let go of this tiny escape, the small paradise of a warm blanket and a dirty mattress. Sam held his breath, waiting, counting the seconds. Nothing. The room was quiet. He exhaled slowly and his muscles relaxed, his limbs melting into the bed. _Just one more hour, _he thought.

"_Just one more hour, Sammy. I can't lose." Dean looked up at the dealer. "Hit me."_

_Sam rolled his eyes. "Dean, we'll have plenty of time for this later. Right now we've got work to do. We're probably not in the right place and you know it."_

_He looked past his brother's shoulder, trying to find any indicator that this was the joint. The room was lit up like a carnival. Bright red, yellow, and green lights flickered sporadically, painting a mural of dancing shadows along a cream colored canvas. _

_Columns flecked with a light golden trim stretched high above the crowd, the weight of the ceiling resting heavily on their shoulders. There were so many suits it looked like a reaper family reunion, and if it weren't for the barrage of beautiful women in cocktail dresses sprinkled across the room indicating that no, he wasn't standing at the precipice of oncoming doom, Sam might have had a panic attack just from the resemblance. _

"_Bust. Dammit Sam, you're bad luck you know that?"_

_Dean's voice was cheerful despite his words. He slid out of his seat like melted butter, his lips curled into a familiar smirk. Sam's heart beat a quick thud into his chest. His brother looked good like that; his hair gelled up, a fresh patch of light stubble spreading across his face. He wore his confidence around his shoulders; it was perfectly tailored, like his new suit jacket, and Sam smiled back at him despite his earlier annoyance._

"_We'll find what we're looking for. We always do." Dean slapped him on the back a couple times. "Why don't we take one night and enjoy ourselves? We deserve a..." _

_Dean trailed off and Sam followed his eyes across the room. A woman draped in black satin was slinking toward them, a jaguar on the prowl, and his brother stood there, like a self-sacrificing slab of meat. Sam thought about trying to grab Dean and make a quick exit, but it was clear she already had him in her sights. And from the looks of it, she was a master hunter. _

_Click_.

The air around Sam suddenly became cooler as a breeze forced its way inside. The door shut but he shivered anyway, the chill still fresh in the air. _Shit, _he thought. He lay there like a corpse, his body a motionless heap of flesh. Sam breathed in slowly, rhythmically, trying to throw off the offender. Maybe they would go away. Maybe they would sense how desperately he needed this and leave him alone.

"Hey Sammy! You awake?"

Or maybe not. How the hell was he so chipper? Sam had a lumberjack was inside his head, sawing his brain in half. Dean's voice was like the axe, just pounding away. He ignored his brother, shifting his body slightly.

Stale pastries and cheap coffee filled his senses. His stomach rumbled involuntarily, but he disregarded it. Paper rustled and crunched as his brother no doubt sank his hand into the bag to grab a donut for himself. Sam heard the heavy clomp of Dean's shoes progressively getting louder and louder, until they stopped, right beside his bed.

"Rise and shine, princess, we need to get started on this case."

He said it with a mouthful of fried food. Sam groaned and fought the urge to hit his brother with a pillow, and instead he rolled over. A firm hand caught him, gripping his shoulder, shaking him forcefully until he was fully awake.

Sam sighed, sat up slowly and watched as Dean's eyes morphed from small orbs to giant saucers and he stopped chewing, his mouth hanging open in disbelief. Remnants of his donut were easily visible on his tongue. Sam grimaced at his brother. Dean ignored him.

"Okay Sammy," he yelled it. But he wasn't looking at Sam. He was looking toward the bathroom. "How did you sneak her in here?"

He gestured to Sam with his thumb. Dean was now grinning. He gave Sam a cocky, knowing smile, and edged his way toward the bathroom. Dean took another look at him, one eyebrow raised.

"What the hell are you..."

Sam stopped short. He brought a hand up to his throat, running his fingers cautiously over the flesh on his neck, like he was feeling it for the first time. The skin was smooth, soft even. Where was his morning stubble? He jerked his hand back as if he'd pricked himself on a thorn and stuck his palm out in front of his face, just looking. He wiggled his fingers, one by one, turning his hand around slowly from side to side. His calluses were gone. The dirt beneath his nails was gone. His entire hand had shrunken to at least a third its normal size. He squeezed his fist together tightly, _one, two, three._

"Hey, sweetheart?"

"_Hey, sweetheart."_

"_Hey yourself," she purred. Her eyes shifted from Dean to Sam and then back again. Her lips spread across her face, slowly exposing her teeth. She arched her back slightly, her shoulder blades caressing the fabric of her dress. Her muscles tensed. She was almost ready to pounce._

"_What do you say I buy you a drink?"_

"_What do you say we get out of here?" she countered. _

_Sam took a step back. He looked over at Dean, but knew it was too late; she already had him. The leftovers in his stomach churned and bubbled the way the always did when a woman showed interest in his brother. Sam swallowed, willing his dinner to stay inside his body. He knew Dean would do whatever he wanted and that, as a grown man, he had that right. But something inside Sam always screamed when someone looked at Dean that way, with a hunger. Sam had stopped trying to figure out what that meant a long time ago. _

"_I'll see you at the hotel later."_

"_Wait a minute, big guy," she took one long finger and dragged it down Sam's chest, all the while keeping an eye on Dean. "I was hoping you boys were a package deal."_

_She licked her lips and smiled coyly, her gaze shifting between the men. A pair of green eyes roamed their figures shamelessly as she took a step forward, looping a finger in the waistband of their slacks. She tugged them both toward her body. Sam could smell her, warm and sweet, like a finely aged wine. _

_He stood where he was, feet planted firmly on the ground, like a tall oak tree in the middle of a tornado. She had violated their territory, popping the bubble they tended to share. On the inside his chest was pounding, pumping fresh blood to his cheeks and turning them a slight shade of pink. He was too anxious to look over at Dean, who had yet to make a sound._

_This had never happened before. In all these years, not one woman had ever suggested such a thing—at least, not that Sam could remember. It was like she had taken the bottle of secrets he kept stored safely in the back of his mind and cracked it, spilling the contents, swirling together his fantasies and nightmares until they were an opaque puddle of images behind his eyes. _

There was his brother's hand again, only this time it touched down more gently, resting easily atop his shoulder. Dean had undoubtedly noticed that Sam wasn't in the bathroom and was probably trying to figure out where he was.

He could look up into Dean's eyes. He should look up. He should open his mouth, say something. Sam tried, but before he could manage a sound another hand gripped his other side, a little tighter.

"Hey, are you okay?"

Dean was genuinely concerned. His voice softened and he uncurled his hand, his palm softly rubbing Sam's bicep. He finally got the courage to look up at his brother. Dean's forehead was wrinkled and his eyes were squinted slightly, his head tilted to the right.

Sam sucked in another breath and held it. Something was wrong—really, really wrong. He jumped off the bed, freeing himself from Dean's scrutiny and ran to the bathroom, slamming the door. Hazel eyes met his gaze and he put his hand to the glass.

It was like looking into a funhouse mirror; all his features seemed similar, but incredibly different at the same time. Sam recognized his eyes; they were identical in color, and the same shape, but the lashes were longer.

He still had chestnut hair framing his face, but instead of stopping at his chin it cascaded down past his shoulders, not stopping until it reached the middle of his back. He stuck his hand in it, trying to run his fingers through it, but it was matted from sleep. He licked his soft, pink lips, blinking twice. His stomach rolled as he watched the person in the glass mimic him flawlessly.

He couldn't help it. He screamed. It was loud and it was shrill, a foreign sound purging itself from Sam's body. He thought of all those poor people he had exorcised, and to be honest he was waiting for something to come pouring out of his mouth, but there was nothing. No black smoke. Nothing. He stood there, staring at the reflection, helpless. There were approximately five quick thuds before he heard Dean yell out a warning.

"Stand back!"A quick crash and the door swung open. Dean grabbed Sam by the shoulders, shaking him fervently. "What the hell happened?" He was surveying the room. "Are you okay?"

Dean was eyeing him with a mix of suspicion and concern. Sam opened his mouth slowly, willing his words to come out, but his mind betrayed him and he stood there in silence. He knew if he didn't get an explanation out fast that Dean would assume the worst, that he would try to make sure that Sam was in fact a human being.

As if on cue Dean tightened his grip around Sam's shoulder and began pulling him into the main part of the room. He flung Sam roughly onto the nearest chair. "Don't move. You need to start talkin. I need some answers here, fast."

"Dean," Sam managed to choke it out. He swallowed. "It's me. It's Sam."

"Last I checked, Sammy didn't have a nice set of tits."

Dean turned around quickly; his movements long ago practiced to perfection. He reached into his duffle bag and pulled out a jar of holy water. Sam closed his eyes and mouth tightly, jumping slightly when the lukewarm liquid coated his face. It dripped down his chin and seeped onto his shirt. He opened his eyes, bracing himself for the next assault.

Ten seconds later he had a lap full of salt. Sam rolled his eyes but didn't say anything, knowing that Dean needed to try everything before he even began to listen to reason. The silver was cool and smooth against his skin and he sat there, wincing when his brother made a small, superficial slice into his forearm.

Sam brought his hand up to his arm and squeezed tightly. Blood seeped between his fingers, a small trickle making its way down his unfamiliar flesh. He looked over at his brother. There was that face again—that look that meant that Dean wasn't one hundred percent sure of himself. He grabbed his gun from the nightstand and pointed it at Sam.

"I mean it, lady. I don't want to hurt you. I'm gonna ask you again. What the hell is going on here? Who the fuck are you?"

Dean moved closer, his pistol never wavering. Sam shifted uncomfortably in his seat. This wasn't going to be easy. Dean would never trust him like this. He'd have to prove himself. He'd have to prove who he was without giving Dean the impression that there was something supernatural about him. Sam almost laughed at the irony.

"Where's Sammy? If you hurt him, I swear I'll..."

"Dean, I know how this looks. It's completely fucked up—even to me...well, especially to me. You gotta believe me, man."

"Why should I believe you?"

"Because I'm your brother." Dean's eyes softened. "And we've seen some crazy shit together. This is just something else, right? I mean, it has to be like a curse or something." Sam paused.

Dean lowered the gun and dropped it on the bed. His footsteps toward Sam were cautious but deliberate. He grabbed the rope from Sam's duffle bag on the desk and began winding it methodically around his brother's wrists, securing them tightly to the chair. Sam fought hard against his instinct to resist, but succumbed to his brother's need to take control of this situation. In reversed circumstances he would more than likely do the same. Sam groaned. It didn't mean he had to like it.

His brother locked eyes with him while he was kneeling there. Sam looked into them, trying to convey the truth that he was in fact himself, Dean's little brother, who had somehow gotten himself into a mess and needed Dean to help him fix it. He hadn't felt so vulnerable in years, not since he was a kid. He was almost ashamed.

A sigh escaped Dean's lips, and he shook his head. Sam knew instantly the moment his brother believed him. Dean's face lost its rough edge, the lines in his forehead smoothed, and his eyes swelled with worry. Sam allowed himself to relax a little; his big brother was here.

"Shit, Sammy."

He stood up, leaving Sam tied to the chair. Dean grabbed his phone and sat down on the bed. He had his back to Sam as he dialed. Sam waited quietly, unable to take his eyes off his new body.

"Well what the hell am I supposed to do?" A pause. "Yeah, I do think it's him, but that doesn't tell me what's going on or how to fix it." Dean paused again. "Fine. Okay. Yeah."

"Dean?"

Dean groaned. "What?"

"What did he say? Has he ever heard of this before?"

"He doesn't know yet. He's going to try and figure it out and call me back."

"Will you please untie me?"

"No."

"Look, I'm not gonna run. I know you know it's really me, I heard you talking to Bobby."

"If I let you go, what the hell am I supposed to do with you?"

"Let me take a piss for starters."

His brother actually grinned. Sam found himself mirroring Dean's face. It was a dirty little secret, but Sam had never been able to resist his brother's smile—especially if he had been the one to put it on Dean's face.

Dean didn't say anything else, just stood up from the bed and knelt down beside Sam. He stayed like that for at least thirty seconds, just looking at the floor, taking soft, even breaths. It wasn't doubt this time. Sam could tell. This time it was worry.

Green eyes caught his hazel ones and held them. Dean squinted, searching Sam's eyes for something, answers maybe, but he came up short. Sam shivered. They were almost nose to nose and he could feel his brother's breath, warm on his lips. It wasn't as if they'd never been this close to each other before. They had, more than once, but Sam never got used to it.

His brother's eyes were piercing. Sam was always afraid if his brother looked at him long enough, he would figure out all of his secrets—that he would learn things about Sam that even Sam himself refused to believe. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

Dean leaned back, putting a slight distance between the two of them, but he was still looking at Sam. Sam sucked in his bottom lip nervously, grazing his teeth over the sensitive flesh. It felt foreign in his mouth. His brother smirked.

Dean's fingers were nimble, undoing the knots with ease. He let the rope fall to the floor beside the chair and took a step back. Sam was thankful for the space, still a little confused and humiliated for reasons he couldn't quite explain. Or reasons that he didn't want to think about.

"Do you remember anything about last night?"

"No, not really."

"Well, doesn't that bother you?"

"No, not really."

"Dean. I'm being serious."

"Me too, Sam. It's not like it's the first time this has happened to me before. Granted, it's been a long time."

"Well did you stop to think that maybe it has something to do with why I'm like this?" Sam gestured toward his new body in disgust.

He paused to think about it. "Yeah, probably."

Dean sat down on the bed again and put his head in his hands. Sam knew he was thinking about last night, or trying to. Sam himself couldn't conjure up even a flash of what happened. It hurt to even try.

"I dunno, man. All I remember is going out and waking up here. I feel fine though, no headache or anything."

"Damn it. How long am I gonna be stuck like this?"

"We'll figure it out. But Sammy, just so you know, you make a pretty hot chick."

"Fuck off."

Dean actually laughed out loud. Sam gave him the finger and walked as calmly as he could manage to the bathroom, knowing instinctively that this conversation was over for now. Once he was inside and satisfied by the privacy he had in the small room, he looked himself over again.

His t-shirt hung low, the fabric flowing freely just below his knees. He ran a hand over his chest. The hard, toned skin that had just been there last night was gone, replaced by a set of soft, supple breasts. Normally his hand would have lingered there, but at this point, he was completely turned off.

He lifted his shirt up. His boxers were just gone, probably lying on the bed or the floor. It was obvious he was too slim to keep them around his waist. He placed his hand between his legs and was groped desperately, but there was nothing. His dick was just gone. He wanted to scream again, but knew with Dean in the other room and Sam was less than eager for Rambo to make another appearance.

Sam sucked in a breath, inwardly willing himself to calm down. They would figure this out. He and Dean always figured this shit out. But what would he do until then? He looked at the toilet. This was going to be an adjustment.

Dean was sitting on the bed when he came out. He was talking on the phone, but Sam wasn't sure yet who it was. He purposely avoided his brother's gaze. Instead, he walked over to the small table in the corner of the room and stuck in hand into the brown paper bag, pulling out a donut. Scratch that—a half of a donut. Sam shot his brother a glare.

"Really dude?"

He shrugged and gave Sam a small smile, then mouthed the words 'what, I was hungry?' Sam rolled his eyes but stuffed the remainder of the donut into his mouth. His stomach was too empty to hold a grudge.

"Okay. Well hurry up." Dean paused. "Yes mam. Sorry."

Ellen. Sam knew instantly that his brother was talking to Ellen. Dean hung up the phone but remained where he was, eyeing Sam curiously from his spot on the bed. Sam ignored him.

"Why were you talking to Ellen?"

"Well I figured you'd want some new clothes, princess. Unless you wanna go strolling around looking like it's that awkward morning after."

"What? You told Ellen, too? Seriously Dean, do we have to tell everyone we know? This is embarrassing."

"Well what else was I supposed to do? You can't go anywhere looking like that and I don't know a damn thing about buying women's clothing." He waited, probably to see if Sam was going to continue whining. "Besides, I can't take looking at you like that."

Dean's eyes were like knives in his back, slowly apply a steady pressure. Sam took a well-groomed fingernail and started scratching at a splinter on the table. The stain on the wood was bubbled up around the nick, and there were water rings dotting the surface. He suddenly wished he was anywhere but here, in a seedy motel room with a less than tactful older sibling staring him down.

Sam didn't know exactly what he heard in Dean's voice, or if he'd heard anything at all. He wished he was back at the bar, drinking a beer and interviewing potential witnesses. He kept his back to Dean, sipping the cold, gas station coffee. He grimaced as the bitter liquid touched his tongue.

"Dude, I can feel you staring at me. It's weird."

"You're weird."

"Really mature, Dean."

"Nice ass, Sam."

Sam turned around, just in time to see his brother let out a small laugh. Crossing his arms, Sam glared at Dean, who continued to sit there, smiling. The tension seemed to lift a little with the sound.

"I'm glad this is so funny to you." He almost stuck his tongue out. "So when will Ellen be here?" He needed to change the subject, fast.

"She's catching the next flight, should be here by dinner time."

"Great. You know, I figured you might be a little more eager get to the bottom of what's going on here. You seem fine with this."

Dean continued to smile and stood up. "Sam, come on," he said, making his way across the room. "It's not like you're in any sort of danger here. You're a _girl_. Not a monster."He placed his hand on Sam's shoulder, looking down at him, catching his gaze for a second time. It was strange to have to look up to Dean again. "It's gonna be okay, Sammy. We'll figure this out."


	2. Chapter 2

i"_There have been two more just since yesterday."_

"_My God."_

"_I've never seen anything like it, Captain. Not in all my years of service."_

"_So it was just the children in both cases?"_

"_Yes sir. Just the kids. Even the babies. Husband's were knocked out cold the whole time, but no physical damage was done to them. None of them remember anything useful, either. Just spouting a bunch of crazy shit."_

_He nodded to the lieutenant, thanking him for the information and allowed him to get back to work. He began to look around; there was blood was everywhere. Whoever had done this obviously wasn't concerned about cleaning up the mess. Chubby little limbs were scattered across the room, a foot on the sofa, a finger in the ashtray. The walls and carpet looked like an original Jackson Pollock. _

"_Where do we go from here, Captain?"_/i

"Let's go!"

"Hang on a second, Dean!"

"Jesus, Sam, hurry up. Ever since you turned into a girl you've turned into a girl."

"Dude, I'd like to see you put a bra on."

"Don't be ridiculous—but let me know if you need help taking it off."

"Shut up, Dean."

It had been a week. One week of Sam bitching about bras. One week of Sam researching until he passed out on the laptop. One week of Sam batting those gorgeous eyelashes. iCome on, Dean./i One week, and they still no idea why Sam had suddenly gone from a moose to a doe. Dean scratched the back of his head, thinking about the night Ellen and Jo flew in.

i"_He won't come out of the bathroom. It's ridiculous."_

"_Just slip the clothes through the door," Sam yelled. _

_When Sam finally allowed Jo access, there was nothing left to do but wait. Quiet murmurs of discontent slipped out of the crack of the bathroom door—all coming from Sam. Jo was apparently being really patient, which he commended her for, because he knew firsthand how frustrating Sam could be when he was in one of his moods._

_It was twenty minutes before they finally emerged. Sam shuffled slowly behind Jo, using her body as a shield. When she moved and Dean saw Sam fully dressed for the first time since the 'change,' his tongue went numb. Anything he was going to say, any snide remark he'd planned to use was stuck there, limp in his mouth. _

_Sam was gorgeous. The dress was simple, a charcoal color with fabric that hung just above his knees. It was drawn in at the waist, accentuating his newly formed curves. Dean wanted to reach out, to run his hand along Sam's hips, to feel the soft material on his fingertips. He knew there was something wrong with him, something wrong with wanting to touch your brother like that, but he couldn't help it. He didn't want to help it. And now that Sam was a woman, it was slightly easier to accept the thoughts he'd been having since he was twenty. /i _

Dean sat down on the chair and turned on the T.V. He might be able to slip in some time with Dr. Sexy before Sam got out, and if he was quick, Sam wouldn't catch him in the act. There were frustrated groans and shuffling sounds, along with his brother's voice repeating 'shit,' over and over again. He pictured the look on Sam's face, irritated, determined. Dean laughed quietly, adjusting his tie.

Sam appeared a few minutes later, wearing a fitted black suit and badge around his neck. Somehow he'd managed to brush that new mane of hair of he had, but it was still free flowing, falling loosely around his shoulders and down his back. He took his finger and hooked a stray piece behind his ear, smiling at Dean. Dean smiled back, unable to resist even the smallest glint of happiness on his little brother's face. Sam wasn't smiling a lot lately.

"Okay, let's go."

"It's about time."

"Ha, ha. I'm so ready to get back to work. I need something to take my mind off...things." He glanced at the television. "Are you watching Dr. Sexy again?"

"Hell no."

Sam cocked an eyebrow at him. "Whatever, man."

The leather moaned as Dean slid into the driver's seat of the Impala, Sam filing in beside him, ready for the hunt. Just another day at the office. But it wasn't. He kept telling Sam that it would be all right, that they would figure this out; but the truth was, he had no idea what was going on or how to fix it. This entire week they'd been researching. They even put Bobby on it, but so far they had nothing they could think of to relate to a gender swap. And it didn't help that things had become very quiet around town; until today that is.

"Hello sir, I'm agent McKagan and this is my partner, Agent Rose."

"What do you want?"

"Are you a Mr. Rork?"

"Yeah?"

"We just wanna ask you a few questions."

"I've already talked to the police. You can get my statement from them."

"I'm sorry, this is standard procedure. We need you to cooperate and things will run more smoothly. We'll be outta your hair in no time."

The man sighed but moved away from the door, grudgingly allowing them access into his home. Dean watched as he grabbed a bottle of whiskey from the cupboard and poured his self a drink. He sat the bottle down on the table and pulled out a chair, gesturing carelessly with a wave of his hand for the two of them to do the same. He wouldn't look at either of them, just sat there staring at the wall, swirling the liquor around in the glass. He tipped his head back and swallowed it all in one drink, then slammed it down. As soon as it touched the table he was pouring another one.

"Look, I know this is hard for you, but can you tell us what happened that night?"

Sam said it with all the compassion of someone who'd known the man for years. Rork frowned. His eyes shifted between the two of them, clearly irritated. He finished off his second glass and crossed his arms, leaning back in his chair. Dean noticed that there were dark circles that hung below his eyes and a patch of hair was growing on his face, indicating days of neglect, even though the 'incident' had just happened the night before.

"It sounds nuts. The more I think about it, the less I believe it myself."

"Try us."

"It was my wife," he said, twisting his wedding ring. "She just, snapped. I came home from work and there was blood everywhere. I didn't know what was going on. I just started yelling for her, for the baby, and that's when...when..."

Sam reached across the table and put his hand on the man's shoulder. It was smaller, more delicate. In a weird way it almost suited him. He'd always been somewhat of a gentle giant, but whether he'd admit it or not, that was another story.

"That's when I saw her. She was standing in the kitchen with blood on her dress. I ran up to her because I thought she was hurt. I mean, I had no idea what was happening. I asked her what was wrong, what had happened, why she hadn't called me."

"What did she say?"

"Nothing. She...she i_smiled_._/i_"

Dean and Sam exchanged looks. "Smiled?"

"Yeah. And that's when I really looked at her. I mean, she had blood all over her i_mouth_/i and in her i_teeth_./i And she was holding...she was holding...I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Sam said. "Take your time."

The man brought his hands to his face, running his fingers through his hair. He shut his eyes tightly and pinched the bridge of his nose, his free hand reaching for the bottle again. Dean's watch indicated that they'd already been there for fifteen minutes, and he had waited more patiently than he wanted to. He felt sorry for the man, but at this point he was ready to get the show on the road before more people died.

"It was our son. His leg. She was just holding it there. I started to ask her what the hell was going on but she knocked me out. When I came to she'd tied me to a chair and talking like a nut job."

"What did she say?"

"She said something about the god who comes. I dunno. I have no idea what she was talking about."

"And she didn't try to kill you?"

"No. I mean, she just left after that. Walked out the front door and left it wide open."

"Did she act strange in the days leading up to this? Anything out of the ordinary?"

"She was just Claire. My wife. I never saw it coming. But that thing...that thing that tied me up...that wasn't my wife. It wasn't..."

"It's okay, Mr. Rork. That's all the questions we have for now."

"Please, find out what happened to my wife. I've lost everything. I just don't understand."

The Impala let out a low growl as they headed home, the familiar sound lulling him into a trance. He glanced over at Sam. His brother's brow was wrinkled, his elbow on the door and his head resting in his hand. Sam hated seeing people in pain; it always did something to him, warped a piece inside of him that Dean wasn't even sure he had anymore. Dean envied that about Sam. He hadn't been able to feel that way about a total stranger since he was a small child.

There was an instant urge to reach over and drape his arm around Sam, to use the weight of it to crush the problems he was facing. But Dean knew it was more than that; that he just wanted to itouch/i Sam. It was obvious to anyone that they were close. They were always in each others' bubble and there was constant contact—punching, nudging, shoving, or a slap on the back—but hardly ever a hug and never a...kiss.

He turned on the radio, the engine alone not enough to drown out his obsessive thoughts. He'd felt that way about Sam for years, but it would always be something he kept to himself. They'd spent the past few years rebuilding their relationship after Sam had gone to college, and he didn't want to do anything that might jeopardize their progress. They were close again. There was an unspoken love between them that rivaled the greatest romantic legends. But they didn't call it that; they called it family.

"What do you think man?" Sam asked, interrupting his thoughts.

"I dunno. Demon possession maybe?"

"It doesn't make sense though. Why wouldn't she kill the husband? And what the hell is the god that comes?"

"I've never heard it before."

"We've got to figure this out, Dean. Those kids...those babies..."

"I know. Trust me, I know."

"This is just so fucked up."

i_"You realize this seems weird, right?"_

_It came out as a whisper, like they were kids in a library who needed to be extra quiet because the teacher might overhear them. They simultaneously glanced up to the front seat. She either hadn't heard them or wasn't listening, because the music was turned up, her phone was open, and she didn't turn around. Sam looked back at Dean, who was clearly relieved they hadn't been discovered. _

"_It was like I couldn't say no. I don't know what it was..."_

"_We need to get out of here—something's not right."_

"_How the hell are we gonna do that? She's riding in the front seat of the cab, it's not like we can just sneak out. Besides, we need to follow her."_

"_This isn't us following her—this is her taking us wherever she wants. We're not prepared. We have no idea what we're up against—it's not safe or practical." _/i

Six hours later they were still spread out on their beds, Dean pawing through old books and Sam scrounging the internet for whatever he could find. Bobby was on the case too, but so far he'd been quiet. Dean's rubbed his eyes with his fists. They were strained, burning from too much exposure to the small print and old type.

The dim light from Sam's bedside lamp crept out from below its shade, casting shadows on Sam's face, highlighting his cheekbones and lips. Dean wanted to taste those lips, to take Sam's face into his hands and kiss him, to explore Sam's mouth with his tongue. He wanted Sam to breathe his name like it was the last thing he'd ever say, desperate, wanting.

"Dude, why are you staring at me?

i_Because I want you._/i Dean didn't say anything, just smirked. He had nothing to offer that didn't have more holes in it than Swiss cheese. So he stretched, dropped the book onto the bed, and got up to get ready for bed. He was going to savor the chance to go to sleep before three o'clock in the morning.

He was standing in the door of the bathroom, rinsing toothpaste out of his mouth. Sam watched him from the corner of his eye as Dean peeled his shirt off and the muscles in his back flexed as he raised his arms above his head, as they always did. Sam looked away as Dean shed his pants. Dean didn't really believe in privacy. Maybe it was all the time they'd spent on the road together all these years, even as kids. Or maybe that was just Dean.

When he came out of the bathroom he was wearing a pair of cheap white boxers and a grin. He made eye contact with Sam, and closed the small space between them. "Who's staring now, Sammy?"

Sam shoved him, embarrassed, but not about to let Dean know that. Dean stood his ground. He should have removed his hand after it made contact with Dean's chest, but it was stuck there, like a fly to honey. Dean grabbed his wrist playfully, simultaneously pulling it down from his chest and tugging Sam's body toward it.

"Feeling feisty?"

"Shut up, Dean."

His brother laughed. "Make me."

"You sound like you're twelve."

"Bitch."

"Jerk."

That seemed to satisfy him. He dropped Sam's hand and, grinning, turned around and flopped down on the bed. Sam pretended not to care that Dean had touched him and pulled him close, but his legs were still trembling from the encounter. He pretended he didn't have feelings for Dean that went beyond brotherly love, but his heart was still pounding from his touch. He pretended he wasn't going crazy, but his mind was reeling. He shook his head, trying desperately to erase those thoughts. But as usual, he was unsuccessful.

Sam grabbed a bag of clothes and went to the bathroom, closing the door behind him. He slid on a pair of shorts and a tank top—Jo insisted he buy a pair of pajamas—and brushed his teeth. He left the bra on. Now that he was wearing it, it felt good, like a weight off his shoulders. He drew in a long, deep breath. If he was lucky, Dean would be asleep by the time he went back out.

But when was he ever lucky? Dean glanced up when he walked out, looking away from his car magazine, acting as if everything was normal. But when he accidentally made contact with Sam's eyes he looked away immediately. If Sam didn't know his brother better he'd say he was embarrassed, or uncomfortable. But Sam did know him better.

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"We're gonna figure this out, right?" Sam knew that Dean would know that he wasn't talking about the baby eaters. Dean would know that Sam was talking about himself, his 'situation.'

"Of course."

"It's just...weird. How are you being so cool about it?"

"What good's it gonna do for me to freak out? We just have to treat this like any other case. You know I always look out for you, Sammy. I'll take care of this."

"You mean _we'll_ take care of it."

Dean ignored him. Sam knew it was a big brother thing, and he still had mixed feelings about it, probably always would. Part of him loved the fact that Dean was so protective over him, while another part of him hated it; it was like he was still a kid, and couldn't do it himself. He knew Dean didn't think of him as an invalid or as inferior. It was just the way they grew up; Dean took care of him, always had. And even though it aggravated Sam from time to time, it made him feel safe, happy. But he didn't have to let Dean in on that.

"Do you think it's related to the case somehow?"

Dean looked thoughtful. "It has to be. I mean, it's weird to think that we come here on a case and then you suddenly wake up looking like the princess you've always been."

"You're such a jerk."

"Never heard a woman say that to me before," Dean said, sarcasm lacing his words.

"I'm gonna kill you."

He ignored Sam again. "Tomorrow I'll dig a little deeper, see what I run in to. You stay here and see what you can dig up."

"No way...I'm coming with you."

"Like hell you are. You'll stay right here where it's safe."

Sam rolled over, narrowing his eyes at his brother. "Just because I'm a girl doesn't mean I can't get the job done. I'll leave right now and have Ellen and Jo come here and back me up on this."

"It's not because you're a girl. It's because you're not yourself."

"Then who am I, Dean? I'm the same person. The only thing different is the packaging."

"I mean it Sam. I'm not discussing this. You're gonna stay here until we know more about this. After what he heard today this seems incredibly dangerous, and I don't know if you're up to it."

"Dean, don't start this. I'm going."

"No."

"Yes."

"Dean! I'm coming with you and there's nothing you can do about it. If you try to leave without me I'll just go out on my own, so you're better off just agreeing with me. I'm going."

"You are such a bitch," Dean said.

Sam chucked a pillow at his brother's head for good measure, but Dean caught it. Sam could see he was still angry, but it was obvious his resolve was beginning to weaken. Dean took the pillow in his right hand and stood up, one eyebrow cocked. Sam knew what that look meant, and he jumped off the bed, ready to run. His legs were long, but not nearly as long as they once were, and Dean pounced on him like a lion.

"You shouldn't a done that, Sammy," he laughed.

He was lying on his back on the floor, Dean straddling him, pillow in hand, with the biggest smile on his face. "You better get off me, man. I'll punch you right in the face."

It didn't hurt but it did piss him off. The pillow made contact with his jaw, not once, not twice, but three times before he had a chance to react. He swung instinctively back at Dean, his fist smashing into Dean's lip. When Sam drew back his hand his knuckles were wet, the pale flesh stained red. He gasped, immediately regretting what he'd done but feeling a simultaneous sense of satisfaction that he'd caught his brother off guard. He knew what would happen next; it was always the same. He readied himself for the inevitable brawl that would follow. But when he looked up, Dean was grinning.

"What's so funny?"

Dean leaned down, his bare chest resting on top of Sam's softer one. Sam could smell the shampoo his brother used that morning—Dean refused to use the "cheap hotel shit." Dean's body was warm even though he wasn't wearing anything but a thin pair of boxers, and the heat was seeping through the fabric and onto Sam's thighs. Despite the sweat on the back of his neck he shivered involuntarily. He prayed silently Dean hadn't noticed, and to his relief, Dean at least acted like he hadn't.

Dean's body was heavier than Sam remembered, and it covered him completely. He was caged beneath Dean's arms. They'd been like this before when they were wrestling, but things usually happened faster than this or they were more violent. They never justi _laid_/i there for longer than ten seconds. It was the most horrible and most erotic feeling Sam had ever had. Was Dean doing this on purpose? Was this just a game to him? Did he know how Sam really felt about him and he was just fucking with him?

"Dean," Sam managed to get out. It was a whisper. Sam had intended it to come out more forcefully, but his voice betrayed him.

"You were right, Sammy," Dean's breath was in his ear. He sat up and looked down at Sam. "You're still you. You might be all right after all."

He stood up after that and dropped onto the bed, leaving Sam alone on the floor, flat on his back.


	3. Chapter 3

"It's a Greek god. Dionysus."

Dean dropped his phone on the bed and ran a hand through his hair, grinning ruefully at Sam. Another fucking god. Suddenly the room seemed a lot colder than it had just a few seconds ago, before Dean dropped the bomb on him, and he shivered. So far they didn't have the best track record with gods. Dean was obviously thinking the same thing, as his forehead was wrinkled in thought, concern, or apprehension, maybe.

_But those eyes, damn, those eyes._ They were big and green and worried and Sam wanted to keep staring at them, to forget the case and his new body and just get lost. He didn't look away until Dean met his gaze, a question painted clearly on his face. Sam pried his own eyes away slowly and painfully, hoping Dean hadn't caught anything incriminating in them.

"Dionysus?"

"That's what Bobby thinks."

"I should have thought of it before...I was just...well, distracted." He looked down at his body.

"What do you mean, you should've known?"

"Well it does fit the profile perfectly. Those women attacking their children and then just leaving..."

"What?"

"They're called maenads. They follow this guy...god, around, worshipping. But they go totally nuts, ripping up the flesh of animals and having crazy orgies. It's all about excess, ecstasy...having a good time."

"Why their own babies though?"

"They probably resisted him at first. He's like a split personality; if you follow him like a good little soldier he rewards you, but if you deny him he makes you insane—punishes you. Stories say that he forced some women to eat their own children. Then they follow him anyway because he makes them. Or he kills them."

"That's disgusting. And completely fucked up."

"Tell me about it."

"So," Dean said, standing up, "how do we track it down?"

"Better question—how do we kill it?"

Dean stood up, his body naked save for a pair of thin, white boxers. Sam pretended not to notice. He fought strongly against the urge to look away—to _run_ away. It was a thin line to balance, looking but not staring, and Sam was dangerously close to teetering over the edge here. Dean walked over to him, and Sam wondered silently if he was _trying_ to give him that little extra push he needed to go toppling over.

"Bobby's working on it. I mean, he's pretty much immortal. He is a god after all. We're hoping it's a standard stake to the heart, but he's checking it out to make sure."

Sam nodded. "Like the trickster?"

"Yeah, hopefully. But it's not like we did so hot with him either."

Thirty minutes later they were sitting in some diner. It was about as noteworthy as any of the million other places they'd gone to eat, but Dean swore they had the best burgers in town—or at least that's what he'd read on the internet. The walls were lined with velvet pictures of Elvis and there was a small vase of fake flowers on every table, cluttering up the already too-small surface. Sam pushed it aside awkwardly.

"So, how's your burger?"

It sounded stupid—they rarely made small talk, and when they did, it was never something as lame as 'how's your burger.' That was the equivalent to two strangers on their first date or distant friends getting together for an awkward lunch. It wasn't them. But Dean humored Sam, as he sometimes would in those rare situations when he knew Sam was uneasy.

"Delicious. How's your _salad_?" He said it with an expression of a parent disappointed in their child's report card.

"Delicious."

Dean smirked. "Whatever, Paris Hilton. Gotta keep that girly figure, huh?"

Sam arched an eyebrow. "You're a jerk."

He smiled with a fry between his lips. "I'm adorable."

"Yes you are," an unfamiliar voice purred.

Dean turned toward the sound, his facial expression nonchalant. "And who are you?"

She stood there, eyes half-lidded, pink lip gloss shining, and smiled. Her hair was the color of a banana that should've been eaten days ago but her skin was porcelain, polished and unblemished and incredibly youthful, not a wrinkle or laugh line in sight. Sam was guessing twenty, maybe twenty-three tops. The tone in her voice exuded confidence, like Dean wasn't the first guy she'd picked up and he wouldn't be the last, and if by some miracle she _couldn't _interest him, it wouldn't break her heart.

"My name's Heather."

"Well hi, Heather."

"I take it you're not from around here?"

"How'd ya guess?"

"Well, I saw the license plate on your car. Sweet ride by the way." _Bitch, _Sam thought. Any compliment on that car would go straight to Dean's dick. Sure enough, Dean grinned widely, shifting his gaze to the parking lot. He'd probably rather fuck that car than the waitress—Sam almost said so, but thought the better of it and started picking at his napkin.

"Thanks. Nice tattoo. Women don't usually get snakes inked on their wrists."

It was actually an ugly tattoo, heavy handed and crude. It was still pink around the edges, like it hadn't been there long, a brand new wound scarring that perfect flesh. Heather looked more like a girl who'd get a tattoo of a kitten's paw on her inner thigh, not a predator on her wrist. It didn't suit her, and Sam didn't like it—liked it even less than he liked her, which was a feat in itself.

She leaned forward, inches away from Dean's ear. "Thanks. I'm not like most women."

The urge was too strong and Sam was too pissed, his patience worn thin from his current 'situation,' so when the impulse came he gave in. He used the toe of his shoe, putting enough force behind it so that Dean couldn't ignore him, but not enough to make too much noise. He didn't want the waitress to know he was kicking Dean. But his brother was smooth—Dean's response to it was to grin more broadly, only looking at Sam through his peripheral vision, like he was an afterthought.

"Oh, this is...this is Samantha."

"How long have you two been together?"

She looked over at Sam, like she had only just noticed there was someone else at the table. Her eyes scanned him critically, probably doing a quick mental comparison, assessing if Sam was in fact related to Dean, and if not, if Sam was any sort of threat to her getting laid. Sam met her gaze, a smug look on his face, pretending to be more confident than he was, and not sure why he felt like he needed to be.

"We're not."

Dean all but spat the words at the waitress. It seemed a little desperate, even to Sam. It didn't matter though, because Sam's heart had already started to beat a little faster, his stomach knotting in on itself. Suddenly he was pissed and he wasn't sure why, so he did the only thing he could; he began stabbing his salad with the fork like he was taking out revenge on a demon. Dean completely ignored him, but the waitress gave him a sideways glance. This was getting dangerously close to a mean girls' moment.

"Uh huh," she said grinning, almost triumphantly.

"It's true. She's just my little sister. I decided to take her to Vegas for her birthday."

Sam pierced his fork deeper into a piece of chicken, almost wishing it would bleed so he could see the damage, and stuffed it vengefully into his mouth. He wanted to spit it at Dean, but by some thin shred of dignity he kept the food in his mouth. Why was he getting so upset about this? It's not like Dean didn't do it all the time.

"Aww, aren't you a sweet big brother."

"I'd do anything for my little sis." He reached across the table and ruffled Sam's hair.

"Well, if you're not too busy partying it up, why don't you give me a call later?"

She wrote her number down on a napkin and slid it across the table. Dean grinned and put it in his phone, making sure she was still watching and no doubt hoping Sam was. Was Dean seriously trying to make him _jealous_? Ha. Well Sam wasn't jealous. A flush crept into his cheeks as he realized that he was entertaining such a ridiculous idea, and he channeled it into irritation, aimed it at Dean, and fired.

"Little sis?"

"Chicks dig that big brother shit. Trust me, I know."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Whatever. You're such a whore."

"Jealous?"

His water caught in his throat, but he managed to swallow it. "Of what? _Heather?_"

"No, of the amount of sex that I have as opposed to the amount of sex you don't. Why would you be jealous of her?" Dean grinned, self-satisfaction all over his lips.

Sam ignored him. There was no way he was taking that bait—that trap was spring loaded and he wasn't going to get caught in it. But Dean was complacent anyway, obviously marking that down as win. His salad was suddenly revolting, but not nearly as much as the thought of sitting in that diner for another second, so Sam pushed his plate across the table as calmly as he could manage. He desperately needed a change of scenery and of conversation.

"I'm done. Look, I'm gonna track down an expert on Greek mythology. I heard there's someone at the college."

"I'll come with you, got nothing else to do really. There's no one else to interview right now. Those bitches have been quiet."

"Great."

Dean gave him a funny look—one seasoned with confusion, arrogance, and a touch of—what was is it? Was it _hopefulness?_ It couldn't be. Sam knew that sometimes, when he wanted something bad enough, something he never thought he could have—enter, Dean—he sometimes fabricated the little things, like a touch here or a glance there. This was just one of those times, and he was going to ignore it. He was confused enough as it was without adding Dean being freaked out by his 'sudden' crush.

It wasn't hard getting in without an appointment since they'd gone back to the hotel and donned their uniforms. Being an FBI agent might be boring as hell, but it was effective. Other getups allowed for two-way conversation and questions, but as an agent they were in charge, they asked the questions, and they were in and out faster.

"What can I do for you agents?"

"_Wait a minute, big guy," she took one long finger and dragged it down Sam's chest, all the while keeping an eye on Dean. "I was hoping you boys were a package deal."_

Sam shook his head. _What the hell was that?_ A memory? "I'm sorry, mam, do I know you? You look really familiar."

Dean looked at Sam, his eyebrows crinkled in confusion. "Excuse my partner, she's new."

She grinned. "Of course."

_Her eyes shifted from Dean to Sam and then back again. Her lips spread across her face, slowly exposing her teeth._

Sam shook his head. He didn't know what was going on—the images were so vivid, so real. It was like he was having more visions, but this was different. It was more like little bits of a really vivid dream leaking through into reality. Dean was staring at him, concerned. He cleared his throat, looking away from Sam.

"So, what can you tell us about Dionysus?"

"Tons. But first, may I inquire as to why the FBI is interested in Greek mythology all of the sudden?

Dean answered automatically, professionally. "Well, the details are classified, but we think the killer we're after might have a certain fascination with him."

"Interesting...well, in a morbid sort of way. Is there something specific you're after?"

"Just a few questions. What's the purpose of a maenad?"

She sat down on top of her desk, her skirt sliding up her long legs as she crossed them. Sam's mouth went dry as he looked over at Dean, who was looking over at _her_—the professor. _Jesus Christ, is that really all he thinks about? _

"Purpose?"

"Yeah, what's the point? They just there to stroke the guy's dick or what?"

"Dean," Sam scolded him.

The professor laughed. "Sex is part of it, but it's more than that. It's about ecstasy. Pure unbridled euphoria."

"So they leave their families, their lives, to follow around some god who gives them orgasms regularly?"

"That's one way to look at it, yes. But I prefer to look at the bigger picture. The most important thing is becoming one with yourself, with the universe. He helps people reach enlightenment by teaching them to look inward and give in to their deepest desires. It's pure energy."

"So they're crazy hippies?"

She laughed, but it was a dry, humorless sound. Her heels clicked aggressively as she jumped off the desk and sauntered over to where they were standing, her hair hanging loosely and bouncing behind her as she walked. She stopped in front of them and looked them up and down, almost as if she was sizing them up.

_She licked her lips and smiled coyly, her gaze shifting between the men. A pair of green eyes roamed their figures shamelessly as she took a step forward, looping a finger in the waistband of their slacks. She tugged them both toward her body. Sam could smell her, warm and sweet, like a finely aged wine._

Sam tried to shake the image out of his head, but it was burning. Visions spread through his brain like a wildfire, catching every synapse, lighting up his mind. He knew she and Dean were talking in the background, but he couldn't hear what they were saying. His mind was so _noisy_. _What's going on?_ He needed to get out, to get some fresh air, to get away from Professor Elkins. There was something not right about this.

"What about Dionysus. What are his weaknesses?"

"He doesn't have any. He's a god."

"Yeah but, gods have been killed in mythology before, right?"

"I'm sorry, I don't see what this has to do with the murders."

"Mam, we're professionals here. It's imperative that you answer all of our questions."

She arched an eyebrow. "He can't be killed. Not by a mortal."

"Well thank you for your time Professor. We appreciate the help. Come on, Dean. Let's go."

Dean glared at him, but Sam was already urging him toward the door. "What the hell, Sam?"

"Look, something's wrong. I think I _remember_ her. She's not...there's just something off here. I need time to think."

"About what? Are you having visions again? I mean, come on man it's been years."

"No, I mean...I don't think so."

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah, totally. I'm fine. Like I said...I just need to put this together."

"And we need to figure out how to hose this bitch and where to find him. What if she knew? What are we supposed to do now?"

"It's called research, Dean. We do it all the time...well, Bobby and I do. Besides, it was obvious she wasn't going to tell us and you know it. There's something not kosher about that woman."

Dean gave him a dirty look. "Whatever, Sam. Well I guess you better get to it, then."

"You've gotta be kidding me."

"See you later, Sammy."

"Dean, wait..."

He stopped, his back to Sam. "Yeah?"

"Don't go out with her tonight."

"Why, Sam?"

This was it; he could tell Dean right now how he felt. He was giving Sam a chance, an opening to..._to what?_ If he told Dean what he'd been thinking, they way his body was reacting to just being around Dean, then Dean might think he was crazy. Might.

"Just uh, I could really use your help, that's all."

Dean's shoulders slumped. "Nah, Sammy you're a whiz kid. I'll drop you off at the hotel."

"Nah, don't worry about it. I'll just check out the campus library and take a bus back later."

"Suit yourself."

It wasn't difficult for Sam to gain access the internet, even without a student account. Sam might have even been a little smug, if Dean had been there to be impressed. But he wasn't, and Sam really didn't want to think about what Dean _was _doing. But he couldn't stop. He knew his brother—Dean was probably smiling with that beautiful mouth, leaning into her body, whispering lines he'd picked up over the years until she melted into him.

"Wow man, that's some heavy stuff."

Sam jumped, the stranger's voice startling him and yanking him back to reality. He turned around. It was a college kid, probably a senior, looking intently at Sam's monitor. The guy was definitely in his personal space, so Sam scooted his chair to the side to make room for this unwanted visitor.

"Yeah, I'm doing a paper."

"I figured. Let me guess—that bitch Elkins?"

"How'd you know?"

"Lucky. I had her last semester."

Sam nodded, suddenly more interested. "Oh yeah? I take it you didn't like her?"

The guy nodded toward the seat next to Sam, a silent request to sit beside him. Sam forced a smile, pulled the chair out, and gestured for the guy to sit down. He immediately inched his chair closer to Sam, but Sam didn't move, even though he was uncomfortable. This guy might know something important about Elkins and Sam didn't want to botch a chance at figuring out something new.

"Actually I fucking _loved_ her. She was awesome. One of the best profs I've ever had."

"Okay, well then I'm confused."

The guy laughed. It was sounded friendly. "At first. She started getting a little crazy there toward the end."

"How so?"

"Why are you so interested in the professor?"

Sam didn't really know what to say to that. "I dunno, I feel like I might need to know these things to survive the semester."

"Ahh, fair enough. Well, tell ya what—have dinner with me and I'll tell you everything you need to know."

"What?"

"My name's Caleb, by the way."

"Uh, huh," Sam laughed—well, made a weak attempt to.

"Come on," he said, putting his arm behind Sam's chair. "Go to dinner with me..."

"Sam."

"Sam. Come to dinner with me, Sam."

"No, I don't think so..."

"I'll tell you everything you could ever wanna know about Professor Elkins."

"Yeah, that's okay. I appreciate the offer, but I'm sorta busy right now."

Holy shit, this guy was _hitting _on him—shamelessly. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his eyes jumping from the screen to his new 'friend.' He seemed friendly enough—too friendly, in fact—and Sam was anything but used to being on the receiving end of such uninhibited flirting. _Is this what we put women through?_ When Dean did it, girls seemed to like it. _Duh, Sam. You're not really a girl. But this poor guy doesn't know that._

"Do you have a boyfriend?"

"Well, no...but—"

"Seriously? A bombshell like you?"

Sam blushed—a legitimate, full on blush. He never did that, but this was such an absurd situation. "Sorry man, it's just not a good time for me."

"Well, can't blame a guy for trying." He grabbed his bag and stood up, slinging it over his shoulder. "It was nice to meet you Sam. Good luck this semester."

He said it with a sincerity that almost made Sam feel guilty. But Caleb was smiling, apparently unshaken at the rejection. Sam nodded, gave a slight wave, and turned back around toward his monitor. Sam's heart thudded with every step Caleb took. _This guy might really know something that's helpful..._

"Okay, wait."

"Yeah?" He was grinning.

"Let's go now. I want Italian."

"I like a take charge kinda girl."

Sam cocked an eyebrow, seriously rethinking this decision. He needed this information, badly, but what the hell was he supposed to do? Caleb beamed at him. Sam calmed down a little, mostly because this guy seemed harmless, just horny. He knew the look—hell, Dean wore it like a sweater. And Dean had said Sam's new body was hot, but someone coming on to him...some _man_ coming on to him...was still weird.

By the time they were seated Sam was actually enjoying the conversation they were having. Caleb was pretty hilarious, and it was nice to just relax with someone who didn't know his life story; someone who didn't know how screwed up he was; someone who didn't know the things he'd done. For a minute Sam wished Caleb was his friend; just two college kids out having dinner together. _What would Dean say about that?_ Dean would make fun of him at best.

"Okay, so we ordered, and I'm here, having dinner with you. You have to tell me anything I wanna know."

"It hurts that you're all business. I thought you were starting to get into this date." His tone was only half-serious.

"Hey, you knew what this was," but Sam was grinning at him, and Caleb smiled back.

"Ask me anything."

"You said you loved Elkins. What changed?"

"She got all menopausal. I mean, one day she was awesome, the next she was weird. I think it was her marital problems."

"Marital problems?"

"Yeah, she'd come in and spend half the lecture yammering on about her husband cheating on her."

"What kind of stuff did she do that was weird?"

"Well she started dressing like a member of _Hair_ for one thing. It was like after her husband died she went from completely pissed to not caring about anything. Total tree hugger."

"Wait. What happened to her husband?"

Caleb took a drink. "How's your lasagna?"

"Huh?"

"You know, that plate full of food in front of you? The one you haven't touched at all."

"I'm a slow eater," he said, picking at his food. It was actually really good—especially compared to the diner food he usually ate. Sam wished he had more time to enjoy his self. _Me and Dean should do this more often._

"I see that. So, I feel like I've been talking forever. Why don't you tell me something about you?"

"Like what?"

Sam was starting to get uncomfortable. It wasn't _really _a date, but Caleb obviously didn't know that. This was harder than pretending to be the FBI—he couldn't just intimidate the guy into answering his questions. He had to hold an actual conversation, which included him listening and responding to someone else who wanted information.

Caleb slid his hand across the table hesitantly. He placed it lightly on top of Sam's, looking directly into his eyes as if asking permission for something he'd already done. Caleb's hand was warm and big, but it was softer than Dean's from obvious lack of any real manual labor. It was a strange sensation and Sam started to jerk away, but thought the better of it—he had to work it if he was going to get what he wanted. _Christ, I'm a goldigger._

"Like, anything. Do you like movies, music, art? What's your major? Pick something."

"I love movies, but don't necessarily have a lot of time to just sit and watch them. I'm a Bruce Lee fan, actually."

"Bruce Lee?" He was laughing.

"Yeah, so?" Sam was having a hard time not being offended.

"It's just, you don't look the type."

"The _type_?"

"Yeah, I mean, no offense, but you look a little too delicate for Bruce Lee."

"Ah, so you're a chauvinist. I knew there had to be something wrong with you."

"I'm hurt. It's not because you're a girl...you just seem like a timid person, that's all."

"I bet I could kick your ass."

"Woah, calm down. I didn't come here to get my ass kicked."

Sam didn't know why he was angry, but he was. This guy didn't know him. _Duh, Sam._ Caleb put his hands up in surrender, slowly reaching for his drink like it was a weapon. The guy had the most serious face that Sam had to laugh at him, even though he didn't really want to. Caleb laughed with him. Hunters antagonized each other on a regular basis, and sometimes it was hard to remember not everybody out there was trying to either kill him or annoy him. Sam relaxed a little.

"It's my turn again." Caleb nodded. "Okay, so anyway, how did her husband die?"

"A murder. Some satanic cult or something. His body was like ritually prepared as a sacrifice. That's what the papers said anyway."

"Damn."

"I know, right?"

"Damn."

"I know, right?"

"So anything else mentionable?"

"I think that's it. Her husband was murdered and she went all hippie chick. Hell, she even got a tattoo."

"Of what?"

"It was like a bull, or something. Right on her shoulder blade."

Sam didn't respond. A bull? Why was that important? _Oh my God, Dean. The waitress at the diner, she had a serpent tattoo on her wrist. _"Hey, would you excuse me a minute?"A serpent, a bull—both symbols for Dionysus. Sam learned that back in high school, he'd just forgotten until now.

"Yeah, sure."

Sam was already up and dialing his phone, carrying it like it was a bomb in his shaking hands. He went into the women's restroom—weird—and got into a stall, pressing the phone to his ear. _Come on, Dean, answer. _But he didn't. Sam frantically dialed his other cell numbers, but still, nothing. He shoved his phone deep into his pocket and walked as fast as he could back to the table, nearly taking out two servers and a small child along the way. _What if something's wrong? What if she got him?_

"I'm sorry, Caleb. I have to leave. I have an emergency."

"Sure, no problem."

_Damn. _Caleb didn't believe him, just thought he was lying for a free dinner and some information probably. And well, he was, but that didn't make Sam feel any better about it. "I'm serious. It's my brother. I think he's in trouble."

"What kind of trouble?"

"I can't explain. You wouldn't believe it anyway."

"Try me."

He ignored the question. "Can you tell me where the nearest bus stop is?"

"Let me drop you off at least."

"You really don't have to—"

"Look, I want to or I wouldn't have offered."

Sam reluctantly accepted his offer, not wanting to waste time arguing. Besides, not having to wait for the bus to make a million stops along the way would be to his advantage. They pulled up to the hotel fifteen minutes later. "Thanks man, I appreciate it."

"No problem. Hey, before you go, here."

Caleb stuffed a piece of paper into Sam's hand. Sam didn't argue or even look at it, just shoved it into his pocket and jumped out of the car. He listened to the engine as Caleb drove way. _What the fuck? _ There was the Impala, parked right in front of the door to their room. Sam's chest tightened at the thought of something happening to Dean. Sam pulled the gun out of the waistband of his pants, gripping it tightly. He didn't know what was going on, but he was gonna be ready for it.

He unlocked the door quietly and peeked his head inside, the pistol down beside his hip. Nothing. The room was just the way they left it this morning; Dean's food on the counter, their socks on the floor, and some empty beer bottles on the dresser. The T.V. was on but turned down quietly. Sam cautiously put one foot forward, scanning every inch of the place before taking another step.

"Dude, what the hell are you doing?"

Sam pointed the gun in the direction of the voice instinctively. He didn't know what he'd expected to see, but Dean in a towel on the bed was definitely not it. Sam dropped his arm to the side, letting the gun dangle at his hip, and used his free hand to cover his eye. Dean laughed at him, which was irritating.

"I thought something was wrong. Put some clothes on for Christ's sake."

"Why would something be wrong?"

Dean wasn't moving. He apparently didn't feel the need to wear pants right now. It wasn't the first time he'd seen Dean in a towel, and it wasn't the first time he'd had inappropriate thoughts about it, but it was riding his nerves hard right now. Sam sighed and sat down at the table, putting the gun down in front of him, the urgency of the situation dissipating. He avoided direct eye contact with Dean—honestly, he tried not to look at him at all.

"When I was at the library I got some new information."

"I'm listening..."

"So Caleb said that the professor's husband was mysteriously murdered, satanically, right after she found out that he was cheating on her. And—"

"Who the hell's Caleb?"

"He's a student at the college. Saw me doing research and asked me what I was doing—I told him I had a paper for her class. Apparently he had Elkins last semester."

"Huh. Well what'd he say?"

"I was trying to tell you." He glared at Dean, but there was little effort behind hit. "Well after that stuff went down with her husband she became a crazy hippie or something. Kept going on and on about being one with herself—you know, kind of the same stuff she was telling us earlier about Dionysus. "

"Good work, Sammy. See, I said you could handle it."

"Whatever dude."

"I still don't see what that has to do with me being in danger."

"Oh, that's the other thing; he said she got a tattoo of a bull on her shoulder after that."

"And..."

"And the waitress you were going to hook up with had one on her wrist too."

"It was a snake, not a bull.

Sam sighed. "They're both symbols for Dionysus."

"Just because she had a tattoo doesn't mean she's a maenad."

"No, but it means she _could _be. And we've never dealt with anything like that before."

"True enough, I guess. But aren't they all into freaky sex? That might not be so bad."

"You're an ass. So...why didn't you go out with her?"

Sam tried to pretend he didn't care, like he was asking something simple, like why Dean didn't like his lunch. But Sam kept his best poker face—which wasn't all that great, so Sam bent down to untie his shoes before Dean could look at him. It didn't help matters that Dean was still in his towel. _And lying on the bed. Oh my God, Sam, just stop it._

"I did. I just made it an early evening."

"Oh. Why?"

"What can I say, I felt bad leaving you with all the work. So I called Bobby to talk to him about what we learned from the old professor and what he'd come up with on his own."

"Since when have you ever felt bad leaving me with all the work?"

"Come on, don't be that way, Sammy. You should take it as a compliment on how smart I think you are."

"So what did you guys do? I mean, was there anything weird about her?"

"Besides her foot fetish?"

"That's sick."

"Tell me about it. She just kept trying to suck my toes and then kiss me. I mean, pick one or the other, right?"

"Dean."

"What?"

"Never mind. It's not worth the breath."

Sam dropped his shoes onto the floor with a thud and leaned back into the chair. He might not _want _to look at Dean, but it seemed like there was no way to really stop it without looking like a freak. Dean had sat up at this point, and Sam watched him with apprehension as Dean stretched, the muscles on his arms and torso contracting. _He's doing that on purpose. _They might actually have to talk about his. Sam really, really, didn't want to—but he was starting to crumble in Dean's presence, like a hot cookie just out of the oven.

"No Sam, she didn't do anything crazy. But we didn't really go anywhere, either. I went by to pick her up after her shift, she pushed me into a bathroom stall and really started to go at it, you know?"

Sam nodded, and waved his hand for Dean to skip the details and just get on with it. "Well, anyway, she got all hot and heavy on me, and then her phone went off. Next thing I know she's tellin me she's gotta go, can't explain, yadda yadda yadda. No explanation, just bails. Then I came home."

"So you didn't have sex with her?"

"What? That's what you got out of that? I thought you wanted to know if she was a psycho."

"I do...but they supposedly go insane during sex, you know. Like they get into a crazy frenzied state when they screw or dance, and that's when they became really dangerous. Really strong and shit."

Dean stood up, his towel barely clinging on to his flesh. He brushed past Sam to get to the dresser, his bare skin grazing Sam's bicep. Sam jerked away but it was too late, contact had already been made, and now he was tingling all over, as if Dean had run his fingers all over Sam's body. _If only. _Dean didn't seem to notice though, just grabbed some boxers from the dresser and dropped his towel.

"Dean, what the hell, man?"

"What? It's not like you haven't seen me naked a million times."

"Yeah but now—"

"Now, what? Now it makes you all wet and you don't wanna talk about it?"

He couldn't stop it. His mouth _fell_ open and just hung there. It must've looked comical—like an old cartoon or something where the character's eyes bulge out of their head in surprise. Sam instantly wished he could take it back, that he could play it off as a joke or something, shoot a sarcastic dart Dean's way and pop that arrogant look off his face. Dean wasn't kidding—he wasn't fucking with Sam; he _knew _Sam's secret now. There was no turning back.


	4. Chapter 4

_"Come on, Sammy. Don't let that bitch get to you. Wake up!"_

_But Sam didn't wake up; he just lay there with his face in the dirt, his bare skin saturated with blood. The woman chuckled as she knelt down to lick it off. Dean watched as she dragged her tongue across his brother's back, her own back arched like an animal in heat, her fingernails digging into his side and tearing the sensitive flesh above his ribs. Thick, red blood bubbled to the surface and trickled down his body and onto the ground, creating tiny puddles on the dirt. It must have hurt tremendously, but Sam lay still, like he couldn't even feel it. _

"_You bitch! Just let him go."_

"_You should've just given in to it when you had the chance. You just had to say yes, that's all."_

"_You keep saying that. What the hell are you talking about?"_

"_Ecstasy."_

"_I swear when I get out of this I will kill you."_

_She stood up, her feet pressing on Sam's back. She brought her arms above her head, locking her fingers together and stretched. She strolled across his body gracefully. She looked like a fearless performer walking on hot coals, one foot in front of the other, determined. She went the full length of his torso before she hopped off. _

_When she got to Dean she was grinning dangerously, tiny pieces of flesh lodged between her blood-stained teeth. She licked her lips and straddled him. Her body was warm, hot even, and it was pressed solidly against his. Her fingers fumbled with his zipper._

_Her hands were small but disproportionately strong, gripping the back of his neck tightly and tilting his head until he was staring into her black eyes. He could see himself reflected in them, a horrified expression twisted on his face—he tried to look past them but there was nothing; she was an empty vessel. She leaned in and captured his lips between hers, snaking her tongue in between his teeth and deep into his mouth, flicking, foraging, emptying the remnants of skin she had acquired and pushed them to the back of his throat. When he gagged she pulled away, smiling again. _

"_It doesn't have to be this way, Dean. You can still say yes."_

"_You're insane."_

"_I saw the look in your eyes. I know you want to." She stroked his cheek with her finger. "He will be merciful."_

"_Fuck you." _

"_See, now you're getting it."_

"So that's how you feel, huh?"

"Yes—I mean, I think so."

"Okay, Sammy. You're probably right."

"I am?"

There was a smile tugging at Dean's lips despite the fact the conversation had veered off the course he'd set, and Sam looked at him with a little more confidence and a little less apprehension. But even after their initial declaration that their attraction must've been some sort of spell cast on them by the god or the maenads, the tension was still thick, smoldering between them, and Dean just knew that every breath he drew had the potential to be the one he choked on.

They agreed to acknowledge that there was a pull between them, that there was a lust so hot it burned to be in the same room together, that there was a want so deep that it hollowed them out from the inside. But then they agreed—or rather, Sam suggested and Dean agreed—it was better to ignore it, that it had to have been caused by this whole crazy situation, and that giving into it might rock their worlds in a way that neither of them cared to imagine.

Dean wasn't sure he actually believed that—at least on his side he knew it wasn't true; he'd always wanted Sam. He'd wanted Sam since the first time he realized he couldn't have him, that it was some moral taboo to be in love with the one person that you could always count on, that knew everything about you, that stood beside you during your most awkward moments and still looked at you like you were something special—like you actually _mattered_. Why did that make him a bad person?

That wasn't really the point though; the point was he'd finally made it clear to Sam how he felt and Sam shut him down. Not that Dean blamed him; if the situation were reversed he might be more skeptical as to Sam's motives, but he honestly doubted it.

Regardless of how it made Dean feel, he knew he wouldn't coerce Sam into it. Sam may be smarter, but Dean wasn't too dumb to realize that if he pressured Sam he'd be a jackass and he'd probably end up with Sam running like hell after this was over. If he couldn't be _with_ Sam he'd settle for being near him.

"Don't get used to me saying that."

Sam laughed a little but it did nothing to clear the air between them. "Do you wanna...go out, maybe? Get a drink? I don't really feel like being cooped up in this room any longer."

"Sam Winchester _you_ wanna go out? Maybe they really did lay some serious mojo on you."

It didn't take much convincing to get Dean to get out of the hotel room. Hell, this way he didn't have to make an excuse to get drunk. After their conversation he was up for anything that didn't include sitting in a room alone with Sam and a bed. When they got to the door, the bouncer greeted Sam with a smile, nodding for him to go inside. Dean tried to follow but a beefy arm close-lined him before he could make it inside.

"What the hell?"

"Free for the lady, not for you. Twenty bucks."

Sam looked smug but Dean ignored him, slipped the bouncer the cash and stepped inside, eager to find a table and get something to drink. They waded through the mass of writhing bodies until they found a booth in the corner, dimly lit, away from the crowd. Dean ordered a Jack and Coke and Sam said 'make it two,' which both pleased and surprised Dean.

Sam started to fidget. "Are you doing the pee dance?"

"Ha. No Dean, I think those guys over there are staring at me."

Dean immediately looked across the room, making no effort to be discreet. His eyes fell to the bar, where sure enough there were three men ogling Sam and none of them looked away when Dean glared at them. Anger. Jealousy. Who knew? All Dean knew was that he didn't like it, wouldn't put up with it, and was going to put an end to it right now. Sam grabbed his arm and shook his head no, arguing points Dean couldn't make out over the music.

"It's okay Dean. They're all the way across the room."

Dean sat back down, but he was reluctant. "Better hope it stays that way."

He was still unsettled, but Dean let the moment pass, and an hour later they were laughing, drinking, talking about old cases and enjoying each others' company. The strain from their earlier conversation was all but drowned, and Dean was happy, floating lazy on a sea of Jack. It was a type of relaxed they hadn't felt in years, and Dean grinned even more when he realized he'd forgotten how much fun they could have together if they weren't actively thinking about all the shit that followed them around—which included Sam being, well, a woman, but Dean was choosing to push that to the back of his mind for now.

"You know, this isn't sooooo bad."

"What?"

"This body. I mean, at least I'm hot."

"True," Dean laughed. "It could be much worse."

"You think I'm hot?"

"What?"

Sam smiled mischievously. "You're so easy. Hey, do you think this makes me a lesbian?"

The whiskey kept coming and they kept drinking it. Dean was in a better shape than Sam, who'd clearly overestimated the amount of liquor his new body could hold. Dean knew Sam wasn't completely off his ass, but he was well on his way, and Dean was reluctant to stop him. Sam was just so hilarious when he was drunk, and it was something Dean rarely got a chance to experience.

"Hey Sam!"

The fuck. Sam turned his head slowly, a small smile forming on his face when his eyes locked onto the person saying his name. But Dean saw him first; he was an average looking guy with a slight build but he strutted over to their table like he was Brad Pitt, and Dean instantly hated him.

"Who the hell's that?"

"It's Caleb. I met him this afternoon, remember I told you?"

"What's up, Sam? I take it everything's okay with your brother?"

"Oh, yeah, thanks Caleb. It was a false alarm."

It was Sam and Caleb who were talking, but it was Dean he was looking at. Dean grinned smugly, doing his best to give this guy a complex and make him squirm. The guy—Caleb—didn't seem to notice, or if he did he didn't care. Dean needed to seriously re-evaluate his death glare.

Sam truly missed the entire interaction. "Caleb, this is my brother, Dean."

Caleb breathed a noticeable sigh of relief, and for all intents and purposes Dean wanted to smack both of them—Sam for saying they were related, and Caleb for enjoying it. He wondered if this was Sam's payback for the waitress. One look at his brother and he knew though, that Sam was too drunk and too happy to be holding a grudge right now.

"Nice to meet you, Dean."

Caleb held out his hand and Dean took it, begrudgingly. "You too."

"So what are you doing here?"

"This is the most popular bar in town. All college kids come here. You should know that, since you're a student too."

"Yeah but I just transferred," Sam lied smoothly. Dean was proud of him, but resisted the urge to say so.

Sam stood up and grabbed the table for extra support. He giggled at Dean. Fucking giggled. It was cute as hell, but Dean let the thought remain just that, not eager to kill their buzz. He wasn't ready to admit it to himself, and if he hadn't had so much alcohol he might not have even thought it so loudly. Might not.

"I have to piss. Order me another, I'll be back."

"Sure thing," Dean laughed.

"It was nice seeing you again, Caleb."

Sam disappeared into the sea of dancing bodies, and Caleb stood there for a second, like he might try to talk to Dean, but he ended up walking away, nodding to Dean before he left. Dean ordered two more drinks but got Sam a beer instead of whiskey, not wanting him to stop but thinking he should probably slow down.

He glanced at his watch several times; he couldn't be sure how long Sam had been gone, as it was hard to remember the numbers once he looked away, but Dean's drink was empty and Sam's beer was getting warm. When he tried to call Sam's cell phone and got no answer, Dean tried to stay calm, but one glance at the bar revealed three empty seats where those pervy men from earlier had been sitting and Dean's mind instantly settled on a worst-case scenario.

Dean swallowed his anxiety and followed Sam's path toward the bathroom, keeping an eye out on all sides for his little brother, but it was hard to see anything in the dim light—not to mention his mind was cloudy from the alcohol. He suddenly wished he'd been more careful. He knew he shouldn't have let Sam go alone, but he hadn't really thought about it. Maybe this was the reason for every woman's bathroom buddy system.

When he found Sam he was leaning up against a wall uncomfortably, shaking his head no. Dean could see his lips moving but couldn't make out what he was saying. The man in front of him leaned forward and placed a hand on either side of Sam, grinning and talking and clearly ignoring Sam's signals for him to back the fuck off.

Dean squinted, was that—yeah, it was. Dean recognized the guy. It was Caleb. He apparently didn't know when to quit, or maybe he just didn't give a shit. Dean could see from where he was that Sam was getting pissed. Caleb didn't know it, but he had all of two seconds to move the fuck on, or Dean was going to become his biggest problem. Caleb slid his hand down the wall and onto Sam's thigh, still talking.

It was quick. Dean was running over to take care of it, to beat the little shit into the ground, when he heard the sick _crunch_. Dean had heard it many times, had actually done it many times, and it couldn't be mistaken for anything other than what it was; human bone being crunched under the force of a punch.

"You little bitch."

He growled it, but it didn't sound ferocious enough to scare Sam, obviously, because his little brother was already moving in to deliver another blow. But Dean beat him to it, using his elbow to knock the wind of Caleb and jutting a knee into the man's eye. He fell to the ground with a satisfying _thud_. Dean mentally thanked his father for his training and Caleb's parents for his lack of it.

"What's going on here?"

"That guy was messing with my bro—sister."

The bouncer looked at Sam, who nodded his head in agreement. "You really should've told us and let us take care of it."

Dean forced an apology and turned to leave, giving one last look at Caleb who was still lying on the floor, his legs curled up to his chest. Sam snaked an arm around Dean's waist and leaned in to him on the way out. His body was warm and Dean tried not to make a big deal out of the closeness of it, but he wanted to pull Sam in further, to meld their bodies together and take him completely.

The night air was a bit of a shock, cool and crisp, blowing lightly against his skin. It was nice to be out of the bar—the silence was comforting and the emptiness put Dean at ease, as he'd never really liked crowds to begin with and that place had been packed. Sam pulled away and looked up at him, those hazel eyes glistening from the alcohol.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"I'm sorry, I should've gone with you."

"To take a piss? I'm not a infalid."

"Infalid? You mean, invalid?"

"Shut up, man. I just had a coupla drinks."

"Seriously, you good?"

"Yeah, I'm jus not...I'm not used to men, you know, doin that."

"I aught to go back in and—"

"Dean," Sam cut him off, "call us a cab."

When they slid inside Dean immediately noticed the smell; it was like a locker room full of pine trees. Dean thought about holding his breath until they got back to the hotel, but he knew it was irrational. Instead he focused his attention to Sam, who seemed okay, though Dean knew earlier he had been shaken. And even though it was irrational, Dean was pissed at himself for letting that asshole get near his little brother.

Sam was quiet, but he was smiling. That long brown hair brushed the skin of Dean's neck as Sam leaned over, resting his head on Dean's shoulder. Dean enjoyed the warmth of it, the contact, the smell. Sam was still using his own shampoo, a small form of rebellion. But Dean liked it because it smelled like Sam always smelled, and that made it seem more like a fantasy since he was rarely this close to Sam unless there was a tragedy.

Dean sighed. The leather seats were uncomfortable anyway, but it seemed worse with Sam slumped against him, pushing him into the plastic against the door. But they stayed that way, Dean too worried to move for fear that Sam would break contact. It just felt too good.

"Thanks, Dean."

"Don't thank me."

"I mean it. You always got my back. That means...something."

"You're so drunk."

Sam grinned widely. "I feel good."

"I bet you do. Let me know how you feel tomorrow."

"You're not exactly sober."

"True, but I hold my liquor much better than you."

"Is that so?"

Sam leaned in closer and twisted his body so that his chest was resting against Dean's, and he fought not to squirm when Sam placed his hand firmly on Dean's thigh and squeezed. Sam was looking at him, his eyes mostly playful, but there was sinful quality to his gaze that made Dean groan inwardly, his entire body swelling with desire. Dean tried to lean back, to put some space between the two of them, but he was trapped. Sam took advantage of it and pulled his thigh up onto the seat, basically straddling Dean's left leg.

"What are you trying to do?"

"I see the way you look at me, Dean. Come on. I just want you to know...I feel the same. I want it too."

Dean could smell the whiskey on his breath. "Sam stop, you're drunk."

"We both are."

"Yeah, but you're drunker. And you don't mean this. You wouldn't be doin it if you were sober, I know you. You just said earlier that we shouldn't do this because of the case."

"You're wrong," Sam whispered. "I would. I was so wrong. This," he ran his fingers through Dean's hair, "this is right."

Dean shivered, Sam's confidence a delicious surprise he'd never tasted, never even seen before. But then again he'd never seen Sam so drunk before either—well, not in many, many years. Speaking of which, he pulled a flask out of his jacket and took a big gulp. He wanted the liquor to burn away his inhibitions, to instill in him the confidence that Sam exuded, the confidence Dean _always_ had but was somehow missing at this inopportune moment. _This is so wrong._

But he didn't want to pull away. He didn't want Sam to go anywhere either, so he just sat there stupidly, like he'd never been with anyone before in his life. Truth be told Dean had been with lots of people; the list was longer than the return line at Wal-Mart the day after Christmas. But it significantly got smaller when you counted the ones he'd actually cared for, and it disappeared altogether when you counted the ones he'd truly loved.

And now Sam was here, pressed against him, saying all the things he'd wanted to hear for years and he had no option but to reject it. It had to be a combination of liquor and his new hormones, because in all this time Sam had never come on to him. Not once—not even when his body had apparently been _aching_ for it as he'd said earlier that day. But now here they were, sitting on top of each other in a dirty cab, and his little brother was practically throwing himself at Dean.

Sam didn't say another word, just leaned forward and brushed the side of Dean's mouth lightly with his lips. He leaned back just long enough to catch Dean's eyes and then moved in again, planting small kisses along the side of his jaw and throat and if Dean wasn't hard before he was rock solid now, his arm involuntarily wrapping around Sam's smaller body. _Holy hell,_ Dean thought. Before he could stop it, images of his dad flashed into his mind and Dean wondered what he would have thought, what he would have said if he was here.

But he wasn't.

And Dean was bubbling over with want, with need, with excitement. His fingers were aching to touch Sam, just to feel his skin. He licked his lips as he pictured it. When he looked down Sam was staring up at him, expecting. But expecting _what,_ exactly? Expecting Dean to make the next move? Expecting him to scream? Expecting him to run?

No, he knew his brother, and he'd only seen that look in his eyes a few times; he was expecting Dean to take control. To take what he wanted. And Dean wanted Sam. This time he didn't wait for Sam to come all the way, instead he leaned down and pressed his lips to Sam's, lacing his fingers through his long hair.

Sam's lips were so damn soft, so warm and sweet, and Dean held his breath because he couldn't believe they were touching his. The cab bumped and jarred them, making the entire encounter more unsteady than it already was, but they just held onto each other tighter. He wrapped his other arm around Sam's and waist and pulled him in closer, wanting to feel all of him. _He smells so good__,_ Dean thought. Dean parted his lips slightly, deepening the kiss but doing it slowly, wanting to savor every second.

Sam responded without hesitation, slipping his tongue between Dean's lips and gripping the back of his neck. _Oh my God he really wants this._ The thought kept replaying itself over and over in Dean's head, as if to excuse his behavior.

"I hate to break this up, but this is the address you gave me."

Sam continued to kiss him, as if he hadn't heard a word the driver just said, and Dean pretended that Sam hadn't, that he was too absorbed in what they were doing for anything to drag him back to reality. Grudgingly Dean pulled away from him and muttered something about the hotel. Sam groaned and stumbled into the parking lot while Dean fished out his walled and threw a wad of cash at the driver.

"This should cover it."

The bed was soft, especially for how cheap the room was, so Dean should have felt comfortable. Instead he felt tense, jittery even. They hadn't touched again since they'd gotten out of the cab. Sam was in the bathroom—he said he'd 'only take a minute,' that he had to piss. Part of him hoped that Sam would pass out in there, and that maybe they could both pretend the cab ride had never happened. But Dean would remember it. He took another shot, thinking about how they were both gonna be so hung over in the morning.

"Dean..." he whispered.

Sam wasn't naked, but he was close. He was wearing a matching pair of white lace panties and a bra. Dean should have looked away, but he couldn't; he didn't want to. _This is so wrong__,_ his voice echoed in head. But he didn't have time to entertain it. Sam was on him in a second, straddling his body like he'd done it a million times before. But he hadn't; he'd never done it at all, and now Dean's mind was reeling.

It was like he'd always feared; once he started kissing Sam he wasn't able to stop. If Dean had a hunger, Sam was insatiable. Dean gripped Sam's waist with both hands, applying a slight pressure as his tongue explored Sam's mouth. Sam's body responded instinctively as he arched his back.

_It's so good,_ Sam thought, as Dean continued to touch him. His brain was hazy, part from liquor and part from lust, but one thing was for sure; he _wanted _this. No, he _needed _it. He had for a long time. And now it was finally happening, after all these years. _There will be consequences_, his mind was screaming, but he ignored it, the low sounds Dean was making drowning out his doubt.

Dean was hard between Sam's legs. It felt weird to be honest, and Sam didn't know what to do about it. It wasn't the first time he felt one, but it was the first time he felt one that wasn't his. He knew he was getting moist, which was also strange, but still so good somehow. _We shouldn't be doing this,_was what he was thinking when Dean flipped them over.

He landed on his back on the bed, Dean's arms on either side of him. Sam was caged beneath him, forced to look into Dean's eyes for the first time since they were in the cab. Dean stopped what he was doing and just stared at him. _Why is he doing that? _Sam wondered. It was making him uncomfortable—it looked a little like second thoughts, and Sam didn't like it. He gripped the back of Dean's neck and pulled him down further on top of him.

That did the trick. Dean was kissing him again, softly now, taking his time to explore Sam's body. His lips made a path along Sam's jaw and down his neck, and Sam couldn't believe how tender he was being. When Dean made it down to his inner thighs Sam held his breath. His muscles tightened and he bit his lip, his body shivering from nerves. _This is so weird, what are we doing? I shouldn't want this like I do. I shouldn't even have these body parts._

Sam's thoughts were interrupted by a warm tongue. _Fuck me, where did he learn to do that?_ Sam wondered, instantly aroused again. Dean's hands were strong, calloused, and they were gripping Sam's hips tightly, holding him down as he arched his back involuntarily. He could feel Dean smiling as he kissed and licked, expertly maneuvering his tongue.

"Sammy," Dean whispered, like it was a secret. Sam groaned at the loss of the warmth between his legs. "Sammy," Dean repeated.

"What?"

"I...I want...let me inside you. Please."

Sam should have expected it. They'd been leading up to the main event for a while, but when Dean came out and asked him he was still surprised. He'd never had _anything_ inside his body before, and he wasn't sure if he wanted to start now. But it was Dean, and this wasn't his body, per se, and it was craving things he'd never wanted before in his life. He'd always _wanted_ Dean, but he hadn't thought about the actual mechanics of it. _What would it feel like...if he let Dean do it?_

Dean was waiting patiently for an answer. Sam avoided eye contact with him. _I want it, I want it so bad..._ Sam thought. The bed shifted as Dean crawled back up the length of his body, kissing him softly on the neck. Sam's body relaxed and he released the breath he'd been holding.

"It's okay, Sammy. It's just me." Another kiss. "I won't hurt you."

Sam couldn't make his lips move to form an answer. Dean just kept pressing his mouth all over Sam's neck, his breasts, his stomach. Dean rose up and gave him one gentle, languid kiss on the lips, and Sam responded in kind. Sam wrapped his arms around Dean's neck, placing his head on his shoulder and breathed in deeply, inhaling Dean's scent. He smelled like hair gel and sweat and just Dean, and Sam was instantly comfortable again. That was familiar, at least, even if nothing else about this encounter was.

"Okay," Sam murmured into Dean's ear. Dean untangled his self from Sam's embrace and looked into his eyes, silently requesting confirmation. Sam nodded. Dean's lips curled into a smile, and Sam had no choice but to return it.

"I'm gonna make this so good for you," Dean promised, as he moved back down Sam's body.

Sam spread his legs instinctively, remembering what it had felt like moments earlier when Dean was down there, and he was both embarrassed and eager. The familiar warmth and wetness of Dean's tongue was back again.

"Relax, Sam."

Sam's flesh prickled as Dean's fingers tracing their way up his inner thighs, and he willed his self with all his might to say calm, to not tense up. _This is Dean. It's gonna be okay. Oh my God, this is Dean, it's so NOT okay._ Before he could change his mind, Dean had slipped a finger inside him. Sam gasped. It was so fucking weird and so fucking _good_ he could hardly stand it. Dean paused, waiting for Sam to adjust, and then started moving slowly, rhythmically.

Sam's body reacted on instinct, the pleasure coursing through every inch of him. He stopped thinking about why they couldn't do this, why they shouldn't do this. Dean pushed another finger inside him. "Dean..." _I wanted this for so long..._

Dean shifted again, climbing onto his knees. Sam felt so vulnerable with him there, just staring, like Dean was looking at him for the first time. He must have saw what he wanted from Sam, because he lifted Sam's lower body up, pressing them together. _No turning back..._

"Dean..."

He pushed inside Sam slowly, taking care to watch Sam's every expression, ensuring that Sam was okay. When he was completely inside, Dean lowered his body until their chests were pressed together, their noses touching. Dean hadn't moved yet, just stayed there, waiting. It was alien but amazing, and Sam was weirded out but ecstatic, a bundle of nerves.

Dean set a nice, slow rhythm, groaning when Sam started kissing him again. _Why was Dean being so gentle?_ Sam was starting to wish that Dean would just fuck the shit out of him, something much less intimate. Fucking he could deal with in the morning. This was something else entirely...this wasn't as easy to blame on the alcohol, and this might drive a wedge through their relationship as soon as Dean slipped out of him. _Fuck._

Strong arms wrapped around Sam's back, scooping him into a hug. _This is too much. It's too real._ He loved Dean, he really did. Even though they almost never said it, they both knew it was true. But this, this was so revealing. How would they look at each other tomorrow? He couldn't even look at Dean right now.

They moved like that for what seemed like hours, unhurried, deliberate. The longer they went the better it felt, Sam's body writhing under Dean's, a hot bundle of nerves shaking with intensity. Dean leaned up then, spreading Sam's legs a little further, and reached down to touch him, his rough fingers massing him gently.

_Holy God,_ he thought, the heat was rising in his chest, flushing his skin, burning away the negative thoughts. His body was hot, his flesh boiling, the pleasure rolling and crashing like waves. It was building inside him, slow and steady with every thrust. He was burning up inside, the fire spreading wildly from his gut up to his fingertips and down to his toes. His body writhed under the intensity and he lost all control. He trembled beneath Dean, the fire at its peak, flames licking every piece of him until he was reduced to nothing but a pile of smoldering embers.

But Dean kept going, obviously not finished, not ready to let the fire die down completely. Sam dared to look at his face for the first time since he'd pushed his way inside. Dean was beautiful. He was always beautiful, but this was different. This was the only side of him that Sam had yet to see, and now here it was—pure ecstasy and animalistic hunger, mixed with undeniable vulnerability.

Dean leaned down and captured another kiss and Sam knew he was cumming, could feel Dean pulsing inside him. Dean kept the same pace but moaned deeply, his body shuddering with release. He pressed his face into Sam's neck and stayed there for a minute. Sam liked the weight of it, the smell, and the warmth of Dean's breath as it came out in little puffs and landed on Sam's skin.

When Dean pulled out it was without a word, and Sam felt a little empty from the loss. He didn't know what to do next so he started to get up, to go to his own bed, to run away from this mess they just made. Dean caught him by the waist, pulling Sam down beside him. Sam didn't want to fight so he didn't resist when Dean put his arm under Sam's neck, maneuvering them until Sam's head was on Dean's chest.

Sleep was creeping up on Sam. The darkness was intruding, inching its way into his mind, taking over. Dean was already asleep, Sam could tell by his breathing. Sam closed his eyes tightly, the words _what the hell did we just do,_ replaying over and over again in his head, until he drifted to sleep, Dean's arms around him.


	5. Chapter 5

_"Let them go."_

She stopped drinking; blood and wine dripped from the corner of her lip, a small, dark red streak painting her pallid face. She grabbed Dean's index finger and raked it across the smear, capturing the liquid. She stuck digit in her mouth, bringing her lips all the way down, her tongue flicking across the surface of his skin. When she pulled his finger from her mouth it was clean. She grinned.

"What do you mean, let them go? I thought you said he was the one."

She turned her head toward Sam's body, which was crumbled up on the ground, a solid heap of flesh that Dean desperately needed to touch–to comfort. He'd stopped bleeding, but the dirt was black from where the excess blood had leaked out and seeped into the soil. Dean watched him intently; his chest barely moved, but every time it did Dean thanked a god he wasn't sure he believed in that Sam was still breathing. 

_"So it's over then. Done?"_

"Yeah, done."

That's where the conversation should have ended. But it didn't.

_"Okay, good."_

But it wasn't good. It sucked. Sam wanted Dean; he wanted him so badly that every muscle in his body yearned for him, begged Sam to go for it. Dean was still standing beside him, wearing only a pair of boxers again, every other inch of flesh exposed to the dry heat of the desert. Their AC wasn't working and they were both sweating, Dean's skin glistening from the moisture. Sam swallowed, but his mouth was still dry.

"Dean–"

Sam started to speak but he was cut off, Dean's lips trapping the words between them in a sudden rush. It was a mistake but it was a beautiful one, the best kind, in fact, and Sam didn't have the strength or desire to resist any more. He gave into the warmth, pressing his smaller body into Dean's, the blood pulsing in his ears urging him to continue, to ignore anything else but Dean. There was nothing else but Dean; there couldn't be. And if there was, even if there was–Sam didn't want it.

He grinned, the memory from earlier swimming around in his head. While it didn't feel_ right_, necessarily, it didn't really feel so_wrong_ either–at least, not when Dean's arms were around him; not when Dean's lips were pressed against his; not when Dean's fingers caressed him.

Sam didn't know exactly what he'd expected to happen the morning after, but it certainly wasn't the soft, sweet version of Dean he'd woken up next to. After seeing his brother on millions of escapades with women, Sam figured he'd wake up to an empty bed–on the contrary–Sam woke up to Dean's body wrapped around his. Dean was_ spooning_ him. And when they woke up he didn't run away. No–he laid there, a dopey grin on his face, and started talking to Sam about how he could really go for some pancakes; it was like there was nothing different between them; like everything they'd done had been natural, and Dean wasn't bothered by it one bit.

"Why are you smiling?" Dean pulled Sam out of the spot he'd found in his mind.

"No reason," Sam managed to lie. "So what's our next step?"

"I say we pay the professor another visit–after hours."  
Sam raised his eyebrow. "You mean spy on her."

"Precisely."

"Why her?"

"Well it was obvious she was hiding something–or seemed that way. And you acted all freaked out about her."

"You said I was being ridiculous."

"I always say that."

"You're so annoying."

They were sitting in that same skeezy diner, even though Sam told Dean that he was too hungover to be subjected to such a sorry excuse for a food establishment. Dean had insisted, saying a place like that was exactly the cure Sam needed–then he proceeded to make fun of him for being such a lightweight.

Sam was looking through the morning paper–just the usual, blah, blah, blah, for the most part. That is, until he scanned the page about another four women just up and leaving their suburban lives without so much as a goodbye. Sam knew it was part of the case; hunters instinct coupled with the fact that they fit the MO perfectly. He sighed and put the paper down.

Sam reached for the syrup, brushing Dean's hand as their fingers curled around the bottle simultaneously. When Dean didn't pull away automatically, Sam let them linger there longer than necessary, Dean's skin sending automatic tingles up through his arm. It seemed like minutes, but it couldn't have been longer than seconds when Dean pulled away, both breaking contact and allowing Sam to have the bottle first. Sam cleared his throat.

"Yeah, good idea. Any word from Bobby on how to kill this thing?"

"Yeah, but you're not gonna like it."

"Why not?"

"Because...we only have two options since he is basically immortal."

Sam put his fork down and looked at Dean. "And those are...?"

"We either have to find the person who summoned him and have them do a reversal spell, or we have to actually catch the guy in the act–you know, 'the act,'" Dean made little quotes marks in the air and Sam nodded impatiently for him to continue. "Then we stab the sucker in the heart with a stake."

"That doesn't sound all that bad, Dean."

Dean shoved half a pancake in his mouth. Sam groaned, giving Dean his best 'really, dude?' look, but Dean just grinned back at him. And oh God, those lips were beautiful. Dean had the best mouth, especially when he smiled. Sam shook his head, willing himself back to the present. Picturing Dean's lips all over his body wasn't going to help them any.

"Well," he said, still chewing, "we have to let the stake soak for six hours in the blood of the person who summoned him, then dip the tip of it in wine."

"So...we'd have to _kill_ this person?"

"I dunno, man. It depends on how much blood we'd need–Bobby's not clear on that yet."

Suddenly Sam's French toast didn't seem as appealing as it had a few minutes ago. He pushed his plate away and looked at Dean, who was still cramming forkfuls of his breakfast into his mouth. There were some things about his brother that he'd never understand–like how he managed to stay hungry all the time, even when they were talking about potentially stabbing someone to death.

"So Sammy," Dean's eyes were shifty, looking around like a kid about to tell a secret he didn't want anyone to hear.

"What?"

"I was thinking...they have a really nice set of bathrooms here and–"

"No."

Dean just shrugged his shoulders and slumped back into his seat. "Can't blame a guy for tryin."

"Hey, you're back!"

They both turned and looked. "Heather," Dean smiled and nodded.

"Sorry I had to run out like that, cutie. But if you're not doin anything tonight, maybe I could make it up to you."

Her voice was like acid eating a hole into his ears. He glared at the waitress, hoping Dean wouldn't see him. Sam's jaw twitched; suddenly he wanted more than anything to reach over and put his arm around Dean; to show_ Heather_ that Dean belonged to him, not her. He crossed his legs, uncomfortable in the skirt that Dean had_ begged_ him to wear. He didn't have to look to know that Dean was smiling at her. He could tell by the expression on her face–not many women could resist that look, Sam had seen it work hundreds of times. Sam used to be jealous that he couldn't do it as effectively, and now he was jealous because it wasn't being directed towards him.

Suddenly the booth they were sitting in was too big and Dean was too far away, just out of his reach. And Sam knew that it was ridiculous, but he wanted nothing more than to punch Dean for being such a whore. Sam looked over when he heard the leather shift, indicating that Dean had turned around. He was now looking right at Sam, with that amazing smile still pasted on his face. Sam suddenly found himself running a hand through his hair, intent on ignoring both of them until he figured out how this was going to end.

"Thanks for the offer, Heather, but I think I'd like to remember us how we were. You know, treasure the time we had together in that bathroom stall."

"Your loss, asshole." She started to walk away, but stopped short and turned around. "I hope you and your _sister_ have fun tonight."

Sam was happy when he slid into the Impala. The old leather was comfortable, contouring perfectly to his body like an imprinted memory from over the years. Dean was sitting beside him, singing some 80's hair band song about cherry pie, his left hand hanging out the window.

Sam grinned at him. The waitress was fresh in his mind–he hadn't asked Dean why he turned her down yet, wasn't sure if he even would. It was likely Dean wouldn't talk about it, and if he did he'd probably cheapen the moment. Sam was going to assume it was because of him–he was going to keep assuming it and not confirm it, because if Dean's feelings for him weren't the reason, he didn't want to know.

"So...she'll be at the college all day probably. We could break into her house? Then after she gets home follow her if she leaves."

"Sure, sounds good."

Dean's hand was warm on Sam's leg, brushing his skin lightly like a gentle breeze. It was fleeting, the only proof that Dean had even touched him were the little goose bumps that dotted his thigh. Sam glanced over and Dean smirked at him. He rolled his eyes in return, irritated because he had no idea what Dean was trying to accomplish; tease him or turn him on?

"You know I gotta ask–is it weird shaving your legs?"

"What?"

"Is it weird? Or is it just like shaving your face?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "How should I know?"

"Because they're so smooth, you had to've shaved them."  
_He's never gonna let me live this down._ "I didn't. I got it all waxed. I didn't wanna mess with it every day, you know?"

Dean smirked. "_Waxed?_"

"Shut up, Dean."

He shrugged. "We're here."

Her house was nice–big, well-furnished, a fully-stocked library that Bobby would give his left nut for; with absolutely nothing out of the ordinary. Sam didn't know what he'd hoped to find; sacrificial carcasses, symbols smeared in blood, skulls lining the walls–whatever he'd expected, this wasn't it. One look at Dean and he knew that his brother was thinking the same thing. Still, Sam couldn't shake the nagging in the back of his brain every time he thought of the professor–not to mention the mental meltdown he'd had the last time they'd seen her.

"Hey Dean, come look at this."

"What, wine? I wouldn't call that weird, Sammy."

"But look _how much_ wine."

Dean rolled his eyes, but indulged Sam, taking a quick scan of the room. Bottles and bottles of wine lined the counters, the table, even the sink. They spilled over onto the floor, sitting side by side, unmarked green bottles filled to the brim with a dark liquid that Sam just knew was wine. Dean looked back at him, one eyebrow cocked, as he reached down and picked one up. He turned it around, looking at it from all angles. The bottles seemed normal enough, save for the dirt that was caked around them. Dean brought it to his nose and inhaled deeply.

"Seems like normal wine."

"Yeah, but it's probably not. Grab a bottle, we'll take it with us."

When they got back to the hotel room Dean flipped his phone on and dialed Bobby. Sam sat down at the table, observing the bottle in more detail as he listened to one half of Dean's conversation in the background. There was an overwhelming urge to take a drink–but he resisted it, barely.

"I don't know." Pause. "Good because we could really use your help on this." Pause. "Okay, see ya soon, Bobby."

Sam's head snapped up. "Bobby's coming?"

"Yeah, figured we could use him."

"When will he be here?"

"Said tomorrow evening sometime."

"Good."

"Yep."

Sam paused. "So, what should we do until tonight? We could do some more research at the library."

"I've got a better idea."

He slipped his arm around Sam, pressing their bodies together, pushing Sam's back against table. Sam gripped it with the back of his hands tightly, his head titled up and just inches away from Dean's. He shuddered; Dean's lips were right there, lingering mercilessly inches away from his own. Sam could reach up, could take them if he wanted to, could slide his tongue between them and Dean would let him.

But he didn't, because Dean's lips had already moved on. They nibbled and sucked at his ear, his neck, his collarbone. Sam shuddered before he could stop himself; his body betrayed him where Dean was concerned–his body belonged to Dean. Once Dean touched him, Sam lost all control of it, his muscles contracting and writhing under Dean's fingertips.

There was a slight pressure on his hips, a feeling of weightlessness, and then the cool, hard surface of the table as Dean lifted him up and sat him there. Sam wrapped his arms around Dean's neck and spread his legs apart, pulling Dean closer to him. At that moment kissing Dean was like biting into a strawberry in the middle of drought; juicy, sweet, refreshing, and completely desperate. Sam kissed him hard, sucking the bottom of Dean's lip into his mouth, refusing to let his brother take full control this time. Dean made a low noise in the back of his throat and eased up, allowing Sam to explore with his tongue, following his lead.

Dean's hand was on his thigh again, but this time it lingered there, his thumb inches away from touching Sam where he yearned for it most. He wanted it for sure this time. He_ ached_ for it, and he was gonna let Dean know it. But Dean just smirked; Sam could feel Dean's lips curl up against his and then Dean's hand was gone. Sam groaned in disapproval.

"So Sammy," Dean's voice whispered in his ear, raspy thick. "Tell me how jealous you were earlier."  
The blood crept into his cheeks instantly and he just knew Dean could feel the warmth on his cheeks. "I know you were," he continued. "I could tell."

There were words–he had them, he just knew it–locked up in his brain somewhere. But right now he couldn't retrieve them. His mind had deserted his body, leaving it a senseless, shuddering cluster of impulses and wanting flesh. And the worst part was that Dean knew it. He knew it and he was fucking loving it. Sam had intended for this to go differently; he'd intended to take control, to rock Dean until he was begging to be inside Sam.

"And I know you want this."

He grabbed Sam's hand and placed it between his legs, the old denim rough beneath his fingertips. Dean was already so hard and he was so right–Sam really_ did_ want this. He silently cursed as his fingers fumbled with Dean's belt; it was an unnecessary accessory that was complicating the situation more than it needed to, and Sam let out a breath when he dropped it onto the floor.

"It's all yours, Sam. Take it."

God. He always figured Dean was confident, good in bed–but _damn_. He didn't know if it was because he wanted it so much or if it just was, but Dean was by far the hottest partner he'd ever been with. His hands were everywhere; they touched Sam where he needed it, teased him where he wanted it, and somehow just knew when to pull back to make him ache for it.

"Dean..." it came out a hushed whisper that dripped heavily with lust.

Sam's panties were around his ankles before he even felt Dean's fingers wrapped around them, dangling there from his left leg. He had to admit, the skirt was a great idea. He sucked in a jagged breath and held it from anticipation; he could wait for Dean, or he could show Dean just how much he really wanted him.

His legs were long and they circled Dean's body easily, pulling him over, their bodies touching. Dean laughed, fucking_ laughed_, but it was a breathy, needy sound.  
"You ready for this, Sammy?"

"Yes."

This wasn't like the first time–or the second time; it wasn't soft, it wasn't sweet, and it wasn't slow. Dean's arms were steady, holding him tightly; his body was strong, pressing against him; and his hands were rough, scouring his flesh. As Dean moved them from the table to the wall, Sam felt raw and exposed and he reveled in every delicious second of it.

"You're mine," Sam whispered.

He loved the sound that Dean made when he said it, the feel of his grip as it tightened around Sam's wrists and held them above his head. Dean thrust into him, hungry–starving, even. It was ecstasy, pure adrenaline coursing through every inch of his body, and it was too much to handle. Sam wanted it to last forever but he couldn't take it for another second; his body trembled, the waves pouring over him, drowning him.

When it was over they stayed there like that, bodies hot and slick, foreheads pressed together. Dean was panting heavily, holding on to Sam like he might run away if given the chance. But Sam wasn't going anywhere; this was too perfect, too comfortable–it was exactly where he wanted to be. Dean leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to Sam's lips. He pulled away slowly, smiling.

"You know, we should probably get going."

Sam grinned. "Yeah, I know."

Untangling himself from Dean was becoming one of his least favorite things, but it had to be done. Thirty minutes later, they were sitting in the car, staking out the professor. Dean had fast food and Sam had a stomach ache from the smell. Why couldn't Dean eat something besides cheeseburgers?

"I hate this part–it's so boring."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Deal with it, dude. The sooner we figure this out, the sooner we can fix my 'condition,' and the sooner people stop dying and going crazy."

"But I like your 'condition.'"

"Shut up."

Before Sam could respond–before could even entertain the statement, there was movement from the house. The professor was leaving. They waited until she pulled out before they started the engine, following behind her as closely as they could without looking suspicious.

The sun was low in the sky but it wasn't quite dark yet, the dim light casting shadows across the landscape. Their cars were lonely on the desert road, which seemed to twist and turn forever. Sam was getting uncomfortable being so far from town with no cover and no idea where they were going. What if she was leading them into a trap? He started to ask Dean just that, but the car in front of them stopped. Dean couldn't pull any closer without looking her noticing them–there was absolutely nowhere to hide.

The sun was almost done now, and Sam prayed that the professor hadn't noticed them. They watched her from the window of the Impala. So far she hadn't looked their way, which was only slightly reassuring. She walked with determination into nowhere, into the dry heat of the desert, dust swirling all around her. They watched as she dropped to her knees and shoved her hands in the dirt.

"What the–"

"We need to get out of here, now."


	6. Chapter 6

**I just want to thank everyone for ALL of your reviews. They keep me writing! I'm sorry this took so long to post, I've been super busy. There won't be such a long break between the next chapters, promise! Hope you enjoy this :)**

* * *

There was a sound like ten lightning bolts striking a tree simultaneously, a thunderous _crashing_ noise that ripped through the air around them—it was louder than anything Sam had ever heard before. He almost plugged his ears like a child; he might have anyway if he weren't in a state of shock. The lonely, empty desert seemed to come alive around them, the shadows from the sparse shrubbery dancing in the dim light of the setting sun, and new shadows popping up all around barren earth.

Sam's eyes flitted all around, watching anxiously as the professor easily sank her hands deep into the dirt until it was all the way up to her elbows, almost like slicing through warm butter. She let her head fall back. Her mouth was hanging open, exposing her teeth, and her eyes were squeezed shut tightly. Sam watched as her lips started moving in a small, slow, repetitive motion, as if she might be chanting.

When she pulled her arms out they were brown, caked with the dirt from the desert floor. _What is that?_ Seconds before the ground was dry, and now it looked as if there was a small stream flowing from the hole her hands had dug, the liquid gushing forward and wetting the surface. Sam didn't have time to think about it; didn't have time to figure out exactly what was going on, though he was pretty sure he knew—they'd stumbled onto a ritual, and they needed to leave—_now._

"Dean, fucking drive man!"

But Dean was already on it, whipping the Impala into reverse and swinging it around like some bad Dukes of Hazzard moment. Sam watched from the window—he silently prayed they'd get away unnoticed, even though it didn't seem likely. They seemed to come from nowhere, yet suddenly they were _everywhere_, dark and loud and imposing, body after body, like storm clouds rolling in.

Speeding away it was hard for Sam to make out the details, but it was glaringly obvious they were mostly women—and they were mostly naked; their bodies were writhing together frantically, scratching and biting each other. There was blood everywhere—and they were fucking _rolling_ in it.

"Dude, what are you doing?"

"I'm not doing it, man...I don't know what's going on."

They car jarred and rocked like it was a small toy being played with by a toddler. Sam gripped the door tightly, one eye on Dean to make sure he was okay. Dean's knuckles were white from gripping the steering wheel, and he was struggling to keep his body on the seat, the constant tremor making it nearly impossible; not to mention, that horrible noise was there again, loud and impossible, ringing in the back of his head. Between the sound and the shaking Sam could've sworn the Earth would crack open—or maybe it already had, and they were trying desperately and fruitlessly to escape its wrath.

He didn't say it, but he thought it, and one look at Dean's expression told him it had crossed his brother's mind too—they weren't going to make it. They were going to die right here, right in the middle of the desert, trying to escape a fucking supernatural earthquake.

"Ahhhh..."

"Sammy? Sammy are you okay?"

He didn't know what was happening; he didn't know if it was the noise, or the shaking, or some crazy magic coming from that orgy; but whatever it was, _it fucking hurt_. His brain was searing hot, a white noise beating and pounding the back of his head. Memories—thoughts? Sam didn't know for sure, but they were scratching at his skull, seeping into his consciousness.

_"Bust. Dammit Sam, you're bad luck you know that?"_

_Sam smiled back at him despite his earlier annoyance._

_ "We'll find what we're looking for. We always do." Dean slapped him on the back a couple times. "Why don't we take one night and enjoy ourselves? We deserve a..." _

_"What do you say I buy you a drink?"_

FUCK. His head was _throbbing_ uncontrollably. The images were vivid, playing through his mind like skipping scenes in a movie.

_"What do you say we get out of here?" she countered. _

_"I'll see you at the hotel later."_

_"Wait a minute, big guy," she took one long finger and dragged it down Sam's chest, all the while keeping an eye on Dean. "I was hoping you boys were a package deal."_

"Sammy, talk to me! Come on, man. Please."

Dean's voice was muffled, like someone talking to him underwater. And his head, his fucking head—he didn't know if he could stand it for much longer.

_Her skin was soft, tender even. Sam didn't quite know what was going on; didn't know why Dean wasn't resisting; didn't understand why Sam himself felt the need to keep going, to keep touching her. _

_"Mmmm...you boys are gonna love it. The power...and Sam, you'll be ruling beside him. It's brilliant."_

_"What are you talking about?" Sam managed to pull away, looking her in the eyes._

_"You'll see. It had to be you, Sam. You're perfect."_

"Sammy. Sam. Come on, Sammy, wake up."

Sam's body was shaking; he could hear Dean's voice in the background, but he couldn't _see_ anything; his consciousness was just an inky blackness. They must still be in the car if he was still rocking. Maybe he'd hit his head? His head—oh god, it was like someone had stabbed him in the brain repeatedly with a screwdriver. He squeezed his eyes shut tighter and opened his mouth, willing his voice to come out, to reassure Dean that he was alive, that he could hear his brother.

"Sam?"

He meant for words to come out; instead, a low groan escaped his lips, the sound of it echoing in the back of his mind. Suddenly the shaking stopped. Cold. It was cold. And wet. He wasn't moving now, and there something moist on his forehead. It was pure relief.

"Take it easy, Sammy. You don't have to talk right now."

Wonderful, because Sam didn't know if he _could_ talk yet, wasn't sure he was ready or capable of making his lips move in cooperation with his tongue to form words. And God he was _tired_. His brain was whispering to him, those images still there, just less pronounced, and he felt his darkness creeping in again. But this time there was no panic; no pain; just emptiness—a blackness that consumed him.

When Sam finally opened his eyes again he wasn't sure how much time had passed; he wasn't even sure where he was really, or even how he got there. All he knew was that wherever he was it was reasonably soft and still and quiet. Maybe they'd died for real this time; maybe he was in heaven or some equivalent. But if this was heaven than heaven _sucked_, because he still had a dull ache in his head, which was something Sam was certain God should fix if Sam was going to be renting a place upstairs.

"Sammy?"

Dean. "What happened?"

Suddenly Sam wasn't alone on the bed—yeah, it was a bed, and Sam was pretty sure at this point that he wasn't actually dead, because this place resembled their hotel room and not some fluffy house in the clouds. Dean's arm was around him then, and he relaxed into the touch instinctively, feeling safer and more comfortable than he ever remembered.

"Let's get you some breakfast and then we'll talk, okay?"

"Yeah, okay."

By the time Sam was sitting at the crappy little table waiting for breakfast, the droning in his head had all but disappeared, leaving behind just a faint little pulse that beat sporadically. It was manageable. Now that the physical pain was gone, he was left to put together the pieces of the visions. Sam was pretty sure he had an idea how they went, which piece fit into the other—he just couldn't see the bigger picture they made.

"Here ya go, boys. Eat up."

Sam looked up reflexively at the familiar voice, a smile on his lips. "Bobby, it's nice to see ya, man. When did you get here?"

Dean exchanged a glance with Bobby and then looked back at Sam. "Sammy, you've been out for a while."

"How long?"

"Two days."

"_Two days? _Are you serious?"

"Yeah, man. You passed out in the car, freaked me the fuck out. I put you on the bed and have been tryin to monitor you to make sure you were okay ever since. I was worried you were in a coma or something, but Bobby said he thought you'd be fine, so we waited it out."

"I feel a lot better."

"Good, but you gotta be starving, man. Eat up."

He hadn't realized how hungry he was until Bobby sat the greasy take-out bag in front of him. His stomach clenched and growled at the sight of the Philly cheesesteak, onions and cheese running down the sides of the wrapper and soaking the napkins. Oh God it smelled so _good._ Sam had never seen anything so inviting, something that looked so delicious, so tempting.

"I would've gotten ya somethin better, but I didn't know you'd be awake."

"No, this is perfect, Bobby."

Hands down, it was the best food he'd ever tasted. For a few minutes he forgot everything around him, everything that had happened, and just concentrated on that roast beef and bottled water Bobby had given him. He heard Dean and Bobby talking in the background, their voices low and cautious, but he wasn't listening to anything they were saying yet.

"So, what happened?" he asked, finally, after the last bits of his sandwich had been demolished.

"I dunno what you remember, dude, but it was crazy. Some weirdo orgy and the ground rockin like someone was shakin it."

"Yeah, I remember us that part—us driving—how did we get away?"

"Luck maybe? I just kept drivin. Nobody came after us, and after a while it stopped. Everything just went back to normal once I got farther away."

"And me?"

"You did your headache thing...you know, from when you used to have visions. Only it was worse—you completely passed out on me, man. Me n' Bobby carried you in. That's it. Everything."

Sam considered it, not saying anything. He was pretty sure he'd pieced together almost everything, but he didn't quite understand it the way he wanted to yet. Now that he was fully awake, hydrated, and full, remembering the images was becoming much easier. The pictures were clearer, more crisp in his memories. He filed them away for later, fully intent on telling Dean and Bobby everything; but first he wanted to ask his own questions.

"So, anything happen while I was out?"

It was then felt Bobby's eyes on him, staring like he'd never seen Sam in his life. "Bobby...you're kinda creepin' me out, man."

"Sorry Sam. I'm just not used ta seein you...ya know...with girly parts."

Sam scrunched up his nose disapprovingly. Bobby had been there for two days, sure, but Sam realized Bobby hadn't seen him up and around, much less heard his new voice. He remembered what an adjustment it had been for the he and Dean. What made him more uncomfortable than Bobby's stare was the fact that he hadn't thought about it at all since he'd woken up—his 'condition.' He still didn't necessarily _like_ it, but he also didn't feel like he was wearing someone else's skin anymore. It was weird. Creepy.

"Nothin, Sam. It's been quiet again," Dean offered, trying to move past the awkwardness of the situation.

"We went back to the place the next day...everythin was clear from what I could see. It just looked like someone had thrown a _hell_ of a party."

"So what's our next move, then?" Sam asked.

Dean looked at him, concern bubbling in his deep green eyes. "Sammy, you should probably take it easy right now. At least for a few hours. Besides, I wanna know what you saw in that enormous brain of yours."

Sam didn't respond immediately. He didn't want to talk about it and he didn't know why, which only served to irritate him. He suddenly wished Bobby was gone and it was just him and Dean again; him and Dean talking; him and Dean kissing; him and Dean fucking. He could always distract Dean with sex, surely, and then he wouldn't have to talk about anything he didn't want to. Tonight—today?—whatever, Sam would have no such luck.

He cleared his throat. Sam knew that between the two of them, he'd have to come clean and he'd have to do it fast. Otherwise they'd annoy the hell out of him. "Well...it's still a little confusing...but...I think I remember some of it."

"Some of what?"

"That professor. The first day I woke up like this," Sam gestured toward his body, "I told you I couldn't remember anything from the night before. Well now I think I do."

"Yeah...so..." Dean nodded and motioned with his hand for Sam to continue.

"The professor. We were in some casino...and she...she suggested..." Sam glanced at Bobby and continued—he _would not_ blush. "That we have a threesome."

At this Dean's eyebrows shot up. Sam couldn't bring himself to look at Bobby, but he could imagine the face the older man was making. "Yeah, and uh...we followed her out."

"Sammy, I didn't know you had it in ya. Maybe you're not as vanilla as I thought."

"Shut up, Dean," Sam almost whined it, too embarrassed to really be annoyed, while Bobby just groaned. "Anyway...it's fuzzy for a while after that, but I remember it felt _weird._ _Wrong._ Almost like she was controlling us a little—you more than me though."

"Whatever."

"No, seriously dude. I can't explain it. But then we're just like, outside or something...and we're, uh, you know, doin stuff...and she just keeps whispering how I'm perfect...the _one._"

"Geez, modest?"

"Not like that, asshole. She made it sound like a damn prophecy or something. That's all I got right now."

"So why are you seeing the past and not the future? And why doesn't this have anything to do with the yellow eyed demon? You're visions always did in the past."

"I don't know."

Bobby'd been completely quiet up until this point, so when he uttered his take on things, Sam wasn't expecting it. "A psychic link."

"A what?" Dean asked.

"I think Dionysus found a psychic link in you, Sam." The boys were silent, nodding for him to continue. "He's a purely psychic entity, focusing on that type of energy. In a weird way it makes sense that he would seek others out like that."

"I can't be the only psychic in the area."

Bobby shrugged. "I dunno, kid. But I think I'm right. He's also known for his dual nature; one minute happy, the next vengeful. Opposites."

"What's that got to do with me?"

"Well, he's also known to do a bit of gender bending. For whatever reason—and like I said, I think it's your ability—he chose you."

Suddenly all Sam wanted to do was go back to sleep, take refuge underneath the dirty hotel sheets, pretend none of this was real. They'd been working this case for weeks and so far this was all they could come up with? Sam entertained the idea of what John might think had he been here. He'd tell them to get off their asses and try harder; only, Sam _was _trying; he just didn't know where to go from here—especially after the crap Bobby just laid on him.

"So what do we do now," Dean said, echoing Sam's own thoughts.

"Are you sure that professor was the one that cast the spell?"

"Yes...no...well, like ninety-percent sure."

"That's not good enough. We gotta know fer sure. If we mess this up we don't get a second chance."

"We searched her apartment a while back but couldn't find anything to confirm it really," Sam offered. "All I can think of is we go talk to her. Lay it all out."

"If we do that we might get killed. If he finds out we're on to him, who knows what the hell will happen?"

"Well we gotta do something, Dean!" Sam was getting irritated now. He just wanted this to be over; he wanted to get on with his life—as a man.

"Sam's right, Dean. This has already gone on way too long. I've spent these past few days doin research on maenads, and I've got some promising news."

"Such as..."

"When they're not in their frenzied state, you can gank 'em just like any Joe Shmo out there. They're just human. But when they become possessed by Dionysus...it's...nearly impossible to kill them. They become pretty indestructible."

"How's that good news?"

"It means we can kill them as long as they're not possessed."

"Well at least there's that," Sam murmured—it was only slightly sarcastic. "What about Caleb?"

"Who?"

"Caleb, Dean. That guy I met at the college who told me about her in the first place. You know, the asshole from the bar?"

Bobby looked at both of them as recognition flashed on Dean's face, but he didn't say anything. Dean cleared his throat. "What about that asshole?"

"Maybe he'd know if she summoned Dionysus."

"How the hell would he know?"

"I dunno, he seemed to be pretty knowledgeable about her."

"I don't want you around that loser, Sam."

"Dean—"

"No. It's dangerous."

Bobby was starting to look uncomfortable, but in true Bobby fashion he didn't say a word, just looked back and forth between the two of them. Sam stopped talking too, because the last thing he wanted was for Dean to go into big brother/jealous lover mode (or what Sam assumed Dean's jealous lover mode was). They really didn't need Bobby thinking anything weird was going on between them. Or did he already? No, Sam was just paranoid.

"Look boys, I'm gonna do more research while you two sort some things out. We'll talk in the mornin. I'm right next door if ya need me."

After Bobby left the room seemed to get smaller, the air heavier, his knees weaker. It was just him and Dean again, which was exactly what Sam had wanted when he first woke up; now though, now he wanted Dean to be anywhere but here. Dean closed the space between them, looking down at Sam and brushing a stray strand of hair out of Sam's face.

"Dean—"

"Look Sam, we're gonna figure this out, okay?"

"You keep saying that. I think we mostly _do_ have it figured out, but I still don't feel any better. How the hell are we gonna accomplish this. We don't exactly have a great track record with gods." Sam immediately pictured the trickster, mentally scowling at the memory.

"Sammy, come here."

And that's all he had to say. Sam was right there, buried in Dean's arms, doing his best not to think about what or how they were going to fix this mess. Sam knew the bed was warm; he knew that Dean was warm; and he knew that he needed it more than he needed anything else. Another distraction. They spent the night in the same bed again, Dean's hand over Sam's mouth to muffle the moans he was making. And when they were done, Sam fell asleep on Dean's chest, listening to his brother's staggered breathing and praying to God they'd find the right solution.


	7. Chapter 7

Warmth. So warm. Sam sighed and curled into it, his body pressed solidly against Dean's, a comfort he hadn't allowed himself since he was a small child. Dean's chest was firm against his back as Dean held him there, his arm draped across Sam's middle. Strands of Sam's hair moved a little, tickling his cheek, as Dean breathed in and out softly, obviously still oblivious to the world. He laid there like that, not wanting to wake Dean, not wanting to get up just yet; all he wanted was to breathe Dean in—the smell of his shampoo, his deodorant, his cologne.

Sam didn't know how long it was, but if he was just guessing, he'd say it was fifteen minutes before Dean's body started shifting, pulling Sam further into him. This time Sam didn't flinch when he felt Dean's erection pressed against him, poking him. He was caught somewhere between the urge to groan in annoyance or spread his legs in invitation.

"Mmmm...mornin.'" Dean muttered, brushing his lips lightly against Sam's neck.

Sam debated rolling over to give Dean a real kiss; Dean was a great kisser all the time, but Sam loved to kiss him in the morning, before he was fully awake and aware. Those kisses were softer and lasted longer, and even though he'd never tell Dean, he craved the intimacy of it. Sam wondered for a moment if Dean kissed all of his girlfriend's and one night stands with the same delicacy in the morning, or if it was especially reserved for him.

The thought was filed away in his brain under the category of 'weird and never gonna consider it again,' for several reasons; one, Sam wasn't _really _a girl; two, Sam certainly wasn't a one-night stand; and three—which is where it became confusing and slightly unbearable—he wasn't Dean's girlfriend. He was Dean's brother. And when this was all over, and Sam knew that with Bobby here it was getting closer to being over, that he would go back to being his old self again; his old self with his old body. Would Dean want him then? Would _he_ want Dean then? Sam was about 150% sure he knew the answer to the last question, but it was the one right before that that made him stop and consider things.

"Sammy," Dean continued kissing the back of his neck, nibbling his ear gently. It was becoming harder to remember what he was so concerned with a second ago.

"Jesus, Dean, stop poking me with that thing. Do you ever wake up _not_ horny?"

"You love it, bitch."

He pulled himself up on his elbows and rolled Sam over onto his back. Pretty soon Sam was staring up at his messy morning hair and bright green eyes, wishing for the life of him he had the guts to ask Dean what was going to happen when he wasn't small enough for Dean's arms to easily wrap around his upper body.

Sam opened his mouth, convinced he might say something to start the dreaded conversation, but Dean effectively cut him off with a small kiss. Sam leaned into it, but Dean broke it off early. He fought the urge not to whine but it was hard not to, because Dean was hovering above him, smiling with those gorgeous lips, purposely teasing him.

"I'm gonna get a shower," he whipered. "I could use someone to help me get the hard to reach places."

Sam could hear the wink in his voice and rolled his eyes. "Is that so? Sounds to me like you just wanna use me for shower sex."

"That too." He made his way to the bathroom, stripping all the way over. Dean didn't look back, he just kept walking like he was confident Sam would follow. And he was right.

After an incredibly satisfying, deep cleansing shower, they agreed to meet Bobby at the diner down the road for a late breakfast/early lunch. Sam was pretty uncomfortable with the idea of Bobby in the room, even though he was pretty sure they didn't have any incriminating evidence lying around. It still felt like an invasion of privacy; which was weird, because having Bobby over was _never_ uncomfortable—until now.

"So, I did some pretty extensive research last night," Bobby said, taking a drink of coffee.

The boys nodded, waiting for him to continue. "I also examined that wine that you snagged from the professor's house. It appears to be normal, but I'd bet my life it has the essence of Dionysus in it."

"What's that mean?"

"It means don't drink it. It's a quick and dirty way to get a small 'buzz' without having to be right beside the god himself."

"That crazy bitch's apartment was filled with that stuff."

Sam nodded in agreement. "Yeah, it was. Completely."

"We need to figure this out, asap."

"Look, boys—er, guys. Let me tell ya what I know, and we'll go from there."

"Lay it on us, Bobby."

"Well we know how to kill 'em, if we can't get her to reverse the spell—if she's the one who cast it. But I don't wanna go in without a plan b unless we have no other options."

"So do we have one?"

Bobby gave Dean a quick glance, then fixed his eyes on Sam. "You're not gonna like this. Neither of ya. If we can't catch him 'in the act,' and off-guard, we're screwed. And to even do that we're gonna have to get past all his followers, which ain't gonna be easy, 'cause they'll more than likely be possessed."

"And they're practically immortal, we remember," Dean all but groaned. "So whadda we do?"

"That's where Sam comes in. We don't know why he wants you, but we know he does. We can use you as...bait. If you can get him to...do the deed, then we can kill him."

"You want me to have sex with him?"

"The FUCK, Bobby! NO. Absolutely, no." Dean shook his head furiously, as if to punctuate his point.

"Look, I know what I'm askin' is nuts, but I don't know what else to do. We got us a tricky situation here."

"I'm not gonna say it again, Bobby. No way, Sam's not gonna do it. He could die."

"Dean—"

"I don't know what other choice we have."

"Guys—"

"We'll figure something else out."

Their voices were gradually rising, as was Sam's temper. He hadn't been blatantly ignored when it came to hunting since his dad was around. He didn't like it. "GUYS!"

They stopped arguing and glared at Sam—as did half the restaurant, but try as he might, Sam couldn't bring himself to feel embarrassed. "This is my decision. And I'll have to think about it."

"Fair enough," Bobby agreed.

Dean looked pissed, but didn't say anything. The rest of the meal was spent in an uncomfortable silence, with any of Sam's attempts at normal conversation thwarted by shrugs and grunts, and Sam wondered briefly if he sounded that stupid when he was irritated. Sam practiced his grunting a few times, a sad attempt to mock and piss off his surrogate father and older brother, but they just ignored him.

They agreed to reconvene at the hotel. Dean was pissing him off; the silent treatment was usually Sam's thing, so when it was directed at Sam, he didn't know what to do with it. He retaliated by giving it right back to Dean. Dean did not care.

"Look, Dean, I know you're worried...but we're running out of options here. We gotta figure this out, man."

"There's gotta be another way, Sam. We don't need to risk your life."

"We risk our lives every time we hunt, dude. It comes with the job—your words."

"Yeah, and their true—when we're talking about me—not _you._"

"That's a load of hypocritical bullshit, Dean."

"Deal with it."

"You are such an asshole, Dean. You can't tell me what to do."

"You sound like a brat."

"You sound like a jerk."

Dean didn't respond, just smirked and turned up the radio. "Dean, I'm gonna make my own decision here—and you have to be on board on you'll get us both killed. You know you can't deviate from the plan."

"What _plan_? We haven't decided on anything, yet."

"I know, but if that's what we have to do, I need to know you'll go for it."

"We cross that bridge when we come to it."

"God damn it, Dean! What, are you afraid I'm gonna get hurt, or that you're gonna lose your fuck buddy?"

Dean looked incredulous. "Where did that come from? And what the _hell_ are you talking about?"

Sam didn't know. He'd been thinking about it for a while, but he didn't intend on actually bringing it up. So why the hell did he? He didn't want to know what Dean would say, and he didn't want to know what Dean would do. He was mentally prepping himself for the inevitable rejection that would come once he transformed back—which was a good thing, right? I mean, hello..._incest._

"Sammy...what are you talking about?"

"Forget it."

"No way. You don't get off that easy. You always wanna talk, so talk, damn it. You don't just open a can of worms like that and not follow up."

"What happens when I change back, Dean?"

"I use more lube?"

Sam didn't know how to respond to that. He wanted to slap Dean; he wanted to laugh at Dean; he wanted to scream at Dean. "This is serious—to me."

"Jesus, Sam. It's serious to me, too, me too."

"So what, then?"

Dean opened his mouth to speak, to answer, but they pulled into the stupid hotel and Bobby chose that very moment to be standing there outside their room, waiting. Dean shot Sam a look, a 'don't say anything in front of Bobby and we'll talk about it later,' look, and Sam nodded. This sucked.

They sat uncomfortably around the tiny table, beers in hand, just looking at each other. Sam could hear the _click_ of the air conditioner as it kicked on. For once, he was speechless. He had nothing to add to this conversation, so he sat there uncomfortably, sipping a Corona and playing with the drawstring on his hoodie.

It was Bobby who spoke first. "And there's another stretch of bad news I didn't mention."

"Wonderful," Dean grumbled.

"This thing," he gestured towards Sam, "this might not be fixable."

"_What_?"

"He's a god, Sam. He'd have to change it back on his own free will—and I don't think he's one to be bargained with."

"But once we kill him, shouldn't that take care of everything?"

"Hypothetically speaking, yes. But honestly I'm thinking it's a 50/50 shot."

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"It's a definite that all the people he's possessed will go back to normal—but it doesn't look like he's possessed you. This isn't like a witch's spell or some cheap black magic. He's a _god_. He's warped reality."

"Fuck, me."

That hit Sam hard—his stomach churned, the beer he was drinking suddenly feeling warm in his gut. He felt sick. He sucked in his bottom lip, his eyes beginning to sting with uncertainty. He closed them, unwilling to cry in front of either of the men sitting beside him. He'd figure this out later—right now, they needed to come up with their next move.

"Look...we can spend time speculating or we can come up with a plan."

They both nodded, and Sam pretended he couldn't see Dean looking at him, concern in his eyes. "I still think we need to talk to Caleb," Sam continued.

"God damn it, Sam."

"Who is this guy?"

Dean looked at Bobby. "It's just some jerk that Sammy met while we were doing research. Had his hands all over him and didn't wanna take no for an answer."

Bobby raised his eyebrows, but didn't respond immediately. He looked at Sam. "Does he know something, Sam?"

"He's our best lead—our only lead."

"Sam—"

"Dean," Bobby interrupted. "I understand you're worried about your brother, but if this guy's our only lead, we need to talk to him."

"Fine. I'll meet with him."

"Fat chance, dude. He's not gonna talk to you after you punched him."

"You punched him too."

Sam shrugged. Bobby looked back and forth between them again, rolling his eyes. "Idgits."

"So it'll be a surprise meeting."

"You're suggesting an ambush?"

"No, I'm suggesting I knock on his door and calmly as him a few questions."

"Dean—"

"It's the only way I'm agreeing to it."

"We'll all go, then."

"No. I can handle the college boy. You guys stay here and try to come up with another plan—one that doesn't involve Sam sacrificing his body to a freaky god."

"So we just sit here with our thumbs up our asses because you're feeling macho?"

"Guys! Enough," Bobby growled. "We'll stay here, Dean you go. We'll meet you at that professor's house in two hours. That should be enough time for you to get some answers and for us to do more research."

He didn't say it, but Sam could tell Bobby was just humoring Dean. It worked though, whether it was because Dean wasn't paying attention or was just happy to have won the battle, Sam didn't know. Either way, Sam wasn't gonna lie—he needed a break from Dean's stupid attitude. He also needed to get some fresh air—to figure out what the hell he was going to do.

Dean spent the next fifteen minutes tracking Caleb down. Luckily, Sam kept his number after their 'date,' and Dean used it to track his gps location. Personally, Sam thought it was creepy, but he didn't say anything; he didn't want to start another argument with his brother.

"How do you feel, Sam?"

"About what?"

They were still sitting at the table, the growl of the Impala becoming fainter as Dean drove away. "The plan. You know I was just sayin' that for your brother. Unless we get lucky, tryin to go in fighting is pure suicide. A stealth attack makes more sense."

"I know, Bobby. I feel—shit, I feel overwhelmed."

"It's crazy—and I know it's a lot to ask—but this is gonna get out of hand fast. He racks up followers like ants at a picnic."

Sam ran a hand through his hair, ignoring the uncomfortable look Bobby shot him. He was used to his new hair, and pretty used to his new body—so sue him. Hopefully Bobby would have a chance to get used to it, either. Holy shit; what if he _did_ get a chance to? No, Sam wasn't going to let that cloud his judgment—at this point, there was nothing more he could do. According to Bobby, he just had to let the chips fall.

They sat there talking, sharpening stakes, and coming up with absolutely nothing new. Dean wouldn't be happy but he'd have to accept it; Sam wasn't sure how they'd break it to Dean, but they'd figure that out later. Hey, maybe they'd get lucky and that bitch would reverse the spell. Yeah right—as if any Winchester ever had anything resembling good luck.

"He's late."

"Yeah, I see that, Bobby."

Sam watched the digital numbers on his watch change ten times before they spoke again. "I hope he didn't do something stupid and hurt the guy."

"You read my mind."

"Let's just go in and wait for her to get home. Hopefully he shows up."

They slung their packs over their shoulders, the tips of the stakes poking out of the top of it. Sam looked around, doing his best to ensure that no one was looking, and if they were, that they wouldn't be able to make out their 'packages.' It seemed all clear. This neighborhood was definitely one that went to bed before nine o' clock.

"Holy shit, you weren't kidding."

Bobby eyes flitted across the room, taking in the wine bottles. She apparently saw no need to clean them up. In fact, nothing had moved—at least from what they could see. They couldn't exactly turn the lights on because they didn't want her to know they were there, which made searching the place nearly impossible.

"I'm gonna call Dean."

"Sounds good. I'm gonna search a little more of the house. God damn flashlight."

One time. Two times. Three times. Voicemail _every time_. What the hell? Dean _always _answered his phone. Sam told himself to breathe, that Dean was probably just fine—no way that guy could take Dean. Dean beat the shit out of him while he was drunk. So why was it so hard to squelch the bile that was starting to bubble up in his throat?

"Bobby!"

No answer. "Bobby! Come on man, I can't get a hold of Dean. You think something might be wrong?"

"Sam! In here—you might wanna—"

Sam followed the sound of Bobby's voice, stepping over the excessive amounts of wine like a soldier avoiding a landmine. It wasn't easy during the day, and it was absolutely ridiculous to attempt it at night, and Sam managed to knock over at least four of them—so much for being discreet.

"Bobby, what the he—"

Bobby looked up at him. The terror in his eyes was clearly visible, even by the dim light of the flashlight. He didn't say anything, just gestured with his head to the left, waiting for Sam to follow his gaze. It took Sam a minute to get it, to understand what Bobby was silently asking him to do. Finally it clicked and Sam followed his gaze, his eyes straining to make out the figure on the floor.

"Fuck me, you've gotta be kidding!"

"Is that her."

"I can't tell. Hit the light."

Sam closed his eyes, trying to adjust to the light flooding the room. It took all he had to open them back up; he didn't want to see what he knew was in front of him; he didn't want to be there; he didn't want Dean to be MIA. He sucked in a breath, telling himself to just deal with it, and slowly opened his eyes.

It was her. It was definitely her. The white tile floor was stained red, blood pooling around her entire body like a crimson aura surrounding her. Her hair was sticky, matted to the side of her face, pieces of it stuck to her lips, which were hanging open, warped into an expression of terror. Her eyes were wide open, staring right at Sam.

He fought the urge to puke—this wasn't his first dead body, but not many of them looked at him. And it didn't stop there; a quick glance over the rest of her body revealed a blunt hole in her chest. And that was it; it was just a hole. A fucking gaping hole. The flesh around it was torn and frayed, as if were clawed out with a set of blunt fingernails.

"Her heart's gone."

"Oh shit."

Apparently Bobby had left, because when he came back he startled Sam. "I'm gonna scoop up the blood, just in case she's the one."

Sam just stood there, nodding. "Dean—Bobby, I can't get a hold of Dean."

"All right, we'll track his phone when we get back to the hotel. Let's just do this and get the hell outta here."

Sam knelt down, careful not to get his pants in the thick liquid oozing from the body. He scooped the blood into the jar Bobby gave him, doing his best to shake the nagging and disturbing images running through his mind. _Dean._


	8. Chapter 8

__**Thank ALL of you for your continued support and reading :D. I LOVE LOVE LOVE reviews! This chapter is all Dean's POV, but next chapter Sammy will get his due :) I hope you enjoy!**

* * *

_"It's gonna be okay, Sammy. We'll figure this out, I promise."_

And it should've been—he should've been able to figure it out, to save Sammy, to kill the bad guys; just another day at the office for Dean Winchester. So what was he doing here, alone and confused, with Sammy God knows where, and a million miles away from ganking the monster?

He shifted uncomfortably, listening to the clink and scratch of metal as it skated across the cold, stone floor. Chains. They were chains, and they gripped his wrists and ankles tightly—tightly enough that Dean knew there was no way of wriggling out of them, even if he was willing to break his bones to do it. Images of the movie Saw flashed through his brain and he shuddered. Seriously, where was he, a dungeon? This was ridiculous.

It was impossible to figure out how much time had passed—minutes? Hours? Days? He did know; he hadn't been awake that long, maybe twenty minutes, but the dull ache in his arms hinted that he'd been in this position for at least a small chunk of time. They were suspended, stretched above his head and pulled together at the wrists, anchored to the wall. The position he was in left little room to move without breaking his arms or pulling them out of place, so he sat there, his naked back cold against the slick stone.

Why the hell was he naked?

That was just one of many questions running through his head right now, and Dean willed himself to calm down, to try and get his thoughts in order; he had to figure this out fast—peoples' lives depended on it—namely his and Sammy's. And Dean knew his little brother; Sam was out there right now looking for him.

_Damn it_, he thought. His entire body was sore, and he knew instinctively it wasn't just from sitting for hours; he'd taken a serious beating. It was something that hadn't happened in a long time, what with their training, but it was a pain that he never forgot. And here it was again, dull and throbbing and terrible, pulsing through his entire body to the point where Dean could probably draw a map of the bruises without even seeing them. What happened?

He squinted, trying to make out something in the blackness, but there was no way his eyes were adjusting; hell, he couldn't even get one of them to open all the way. He could feel the skin, thick and swollen, pushing his lids together. Another quick survey of the place told him that there was absolutely no source of light in the room anyway; if Dean had to guess—and he did—he was underground somewhere. It was too cold, too dark, and too damp for many other places. He shivered and sucked in a breath.

He tried to remember, but his head still hurt, so he laid it back against the wall behind him, relishing the cold comfort against his skull—that is until his head rolled the wrong way and he realized he had a lump the size of Texas back there. He licked his lips; the bottom one stung as his tongue grazed it, and Dean could feel where it was split in at least two places. Bastard. He had no idea the extent of the damage, but it seemed pretty bad. How was he going to get out of this? How was he going to help Sam?

Dean squeezed his eyes together tightly; the new beam of light flooding the room was too much for them to take, blinding, in fact. There were footsteps. They were heavy, and they echoed in the now dimly-lit room, getting louder and louder, closer and closer to him. It was an awful feeling being helpless, at the mercy of someone or something he couldn't identify yet, no chance in hell of escape. It wasn't a position Dean Winchester had found himself in many times—but he had been there before. So why couldn't he remember what he'd done to get out of it? The feet stopped in front of him, and Dean gathered up the strength to open his eyes as much as he could.

"You're awake."

That voice was familiar. He'd heard it before, he just couldn't place it. It was buried somewhere near the surface of his brain but it was hard to reach it; every time he started to dig for it his head throbbed, reminding him this was a _bad _situation. He should look up at the guy, try to decipher his identity based on his facial features—but it wasn't that easy. His neck _hurt,_ hurt like a bitch, and he wasn't sure he had it in him to request his muscles to follow through.

"Aww, come on, don't stay mad at me. It's not nice to hold a grudge you know."

Dean didn't like the guy's tone. He didn't like being mocked. He didn't like being chained to a fucking wall. "Seriously Dean, I mean, come on—I kinda owe you one from the bar anyway."

The bar? Fuck. "Caleb."

He remembered—sort of. He remembered arguing with Sam, insisting he meet Caleb alone. He remembered Bobby giving in, agreeing with him, saying that him and Sam would meet Dean at the professor's house in a few hours—the professor...

That meant Bobby and Sam had gone on without him. Shit. Dean wondered if they were all right; maybe they'd gone to the wrong place. Maybe they were okay. Maybe she didn't really have anything to do with the case. Dean didn't really believe that; there was too much wine all over that woman's house, but it was helpful to hold on to the idea, even if it was only for a second.

"You remembered! For a second I thought you'd forgot all about me." He had a little whine in his voice, obvious sarcasm, and it pissed Dean off even more than he already was.

So Caleb fucked him up, huh? Dean would've never seen that coming, not in a million years, because Caleb had been a wimp—a little bitch, in fact. He'd gone down easy at the bar, and Dean had been off his ass drunk, so now that he was sober, he didn't have any reason to suspect that Caleb would have been a problem. So why then, was Dean chained to a wall while this asshole glared down at him like Dean was a piece of gum stuck to the bottom of his shoe?

"How the hell did you manage this?"

"What, kicking your ass?"

Dean didn't respond but he did look up, meeting Caleb's condescending stare with his very own bitchface—he was pretty sure he learned it from Sam, and that thought almost made him smile. Almost. It didn't have the effect that Dean wanted it to, but it did make him feel slightly better, slightly less worthless.

Still, he knew there was no way this guy beat him this badly without help. Dean had been in plenty of fights, and he could guess pretty accurately how rough a person was going to be; and that meant he knew not to judge the product by the packaging. Going off that, Dean was still one hundred percent sure Caleb _could not_ kick the shit out of him without the help of at least two other people and an arsenal. He just didn't have it in him.

"How'd you pull it off?" Dean asked it again, casually, as if he were inquiring about the weather. He regretted it the second it was out of his mouth; his jaw was so sore it felt like it was going to come unhinged.

Caleb arched an eyebrow. He looked like he might answer Dean, but then he just smiled. "Hungry?"

He didn't know how to respond to that, so he didn't. There was no figuring out what his motive was right now, so Dean just sat there stupidly, thinking about all the weak spots and pressure points on Caleb's body, and how easy and satisfying it would be to watch the man crumple to the floor with an expression of agony on his face. If only Dean could just stand up, just long enough for one well-placed strike.

_"Can I help you?"_

_"I just need to ask you a few questions, then I'll be on my way."_

_Caleb smiled, exposing his teeth and arching an eyebrow. "Why in hell would I answer your questions? I don't even know you and the last time I saw you, you punched me."_

_Dean tried not to grin, but it was hard. "You shouldn't have been perving on my sister, dude."_

_"You're right."_

_Huh? "I am?"_

_"Yeah. Tell Sam I feel really bad about it. Sometimes when I drink I get a little handsy. I feel like a total jerk."_

_Dean didn't know if he should believe the guy, but he seemed genuine—and harmless. Even so, when Caleb invited him in Dean gripped the gun in the waistband of his jeans to reassure himself. He wasn't scared of the guy, but, as his dad would say, it was always essential to be prepared._

"I'm going to unchain you now, but don't think it's a mistake on my part. Trust me when I say that you don't want to go for a round two."

Dean didn't know what to make of it. He wasn't going to protest, obviously, but why in the hell would Caleb just unchain him and trust him not to try and get out of here—to not beat his skinny ass into the ground for what he did. Did Dean look that bad, so weak that he couldn't pull it off? Maybe. Or maybe, and more likely, there was something else going on here; a backup plan, a fucking sniper, something, because he sure wasn't scared of Dean.

"I was hoping you'd be awake soon—wasn't sure how long you'd be out," he said, as he was undoing Dean's shackles.

He tried, but he couldn't suppress the groan as his arms were freed. They dropped to his sides like weights, limp, useless and heavy, adding more pain to his apparently damaged ribs when they hit. This was bad; like really, really bad. Dean didn't know if he had the energy to lift them up again, even if he wanted to, even if he _needed_ to, which he desperately did.

_"You really shouldn't've come here, Dean—but I'm glad you did. Makes my job easier."_

_"What the hell are you talking about?"_

_"I didn't wanna have to hurt Sam, too. My master wouldn't like it. If I came after you, that's how it would've gone down. But you came to me." He grinned widely._

_"Leave Sam alone." _

"Well, what are you waiting for? I'm not gonna have to carry you again, am I? I thought you could at least make it to the stairs."

Oh God, Dean wanted to punch him. "What are you doing?"

If he would've been able, Dean would've slapped Caleb's hand away. He jutted it right in front of Dean's, like he was offering Dean _help._ "Take it."

Dean ignored him; instead, he took his useless arms, mustered all the energy he had, and did his best to push himself off the ground; that one feeble attempt was enlightening. Seriously, it was as if all the bacon cheeseburgers he'd eaten over the years finally caught up with him, sitting heavy in his body, weighing him down. His legs were no help either; every time he tried to use them they crumpled under the weight, shooting pain through his entire body in white hot coils.

Caleb's hand was still there. "Fine, just stay down here then."

"Damn it." He didn't want to, but what choice did he have? Accepting help from the enemy; his dad would be so disappointed. He didn't know what Sammy might think.

"That's what I thought."

Even with Caleb's help, it took everything Dean had to stand up, and when he finally did he wasn't sure how long he could stay that way. His body was begging him to call it quits already, to just drop back down onto the floor and tell Caleb to leave him there. He wondered how long it would take for the rats to find him, and if it would be more painful to be eaten alive than to walk up the stairs.

It couldn't have been more than a matter of minutes, but it felt like hours and it was excruciating. Step after step, like he was climbing Mount Everest with no gear and broken limbs. And to make matters worse—he was leaning on Caleb. His stomach rolled at the thought. The only thing redeeming about this situation was the fact that he was reasonably sure that there had to be a knife in the kitchen and surely he could still manage a simple stab in the back. Keep your enemies closer, right?

_"You shouldn't've come here, but I'm so glad you did."_

_Dean arched an eyebrow. If this guy was going for intimidation, he was gonna have to try a little harder. "What?"_

_Caleb ignored him and proceeded to circle him, much like Dean had seen vultures do when they spotted a rotting carcass for dinner. It was unsettling, especially with the look he was giving Dean; it was hungry, lust-filled and greedy. Intimidation goal: achieved. This guy was seriously freaking him out._

_"I'll be right back, so make yourself comfortable." He gestured toward the couch and Dean stayed planted firmly where he was._

_When Caleb came back he was holding a bottle of wine and two glasses, still smiling with that creepy look on his face. "What do you think this is, a date? I came here for some answers."_

_Wait. Something prickled in the back of Dean's mind as he stared at the guy; he was missing something. Dean was missing a piece here; there was something he wasn't picking up on. The wine. Same bottle the professor had. He stared at Caleb in horror, not bothering to mask the uncertainty on his face. What was it that Bobby had said—invincible?_

_There wasn't time to think; Dean was better in these situations anyway, the ones that required pure instinct and adrenaline, and before he realized it, his hands were wrapped around the gun in his waistband, pulling it out and aiming it straight at Caleb's head. _

_He wasn't going to wait to be taken out; no, he'd come too far, made it through too much shit to be offed by some psycho groupie for the god of sex and blood. He wasn't gonna leave Sam alone in this, either. No. Dean pulled the trigger._

_The gun was loud, like it always was, but Dean had never shot something so human before, so when he watched the bullet sink into Caleb's flesh, he had to actually resist the urge to vomit. It ripped into the tender flesh of his forehead, cracking his skull and no doubt embedding itself deep into his brain. Blood sprayed and trickled from the hole in his head, sliding onto his cheek and down his neck._

_Wait—something wasn't right. Caleb should be dead; like down in a blaze of glory, dead—which is why Dean didn't understand how he was still standing there. Dean watched as Caleb lifted his hand up to the freshly-made wound. His fingers traced the outline of the hole, as if assessing the damage. He frowned, and then—oh my god, Dean thought. He's not..._

_In one swift motion Caleb jabbed his index finger and thumb into the hole. Dean listened to the sickening squishing sound as Caleb explored the wound, watching in disgust as with every move more blood oozed from his forehead. He was gonna be sick. Dean Winchester was going to puke._

_Caleb grinned was he withdrew his fingers. He was holding the bullet between them, smiling, like he just found buried treasure. He wiped his hands off on his pants, and Dean swallowed the bile rising in his throat as he watched the little pieces of brain matter roll off his fingers and cling to the fabric. Caleb used his other hand to grab the wine bottle and took a big swig. _

_Dean shot him again. And again. And again, until he'd emptied his entire clip on the bastard, but Caleb just stood there, unfazed. Scratch that; he was walking now, and he was walking in Dean's direction, and suddenly the door seemed a lot further away than it had ten minutes ago. Dean was all out of ammo and never had a very well-thought-out initial plan, and he certainly didn't have a backup plan—which, obviously, was a mistake. But seriously, this guy, a maenad? Dean was sure only chicks could be maenads, and he'd had no reason to believe this guy was anything but a creeper._

_"You really shouldn't've done that. I wasn't going to hurt you, not right away, anyway."_

_Dean made a last-ditch effort to bolt for the door. "Come on, Dean. You didn't think it'd be that easy, did you? You're not going anywhere."_

"Why," he breathed heavily, trying to catch his breath and deal with the pain, "why are you helping me?" Dean was trying to limit his questions, because his jaw paid a high price for each one, but this one was nagging at him.

"You're helping me, Dean. Now, eat."

He hadn't noticed it before but now he couldn't ignore it; oh God it smelled so good, great, even, like how Dean imagined every delicious Thanksgiving dinner he'd seen on T.V. probably smelled, only this time he was standing in the same room with it. It was real.

Caleb dropped him into the closest chair. Dean took that moment and used his one good eye to survey his surroundings; it was heaven. It had to be. There was no other way to explain it, the smorgasbord laid out in front of him like an offering; turkey and ham and chicken, sitting there, tempting and no doubt delicious. There was a rainbow of fruits too; pomegranates, oranges, pineapples, grapes, anything and everything Dean had ever wanted. There were giant stands topped with cakes and—oh my God—_pies_.

Instinctively he reached out, ignoring the sharp pain that shot through his arm at the movement, and grabbed the closest chicken leg. He brought it all the way up to his lips before he stopped. What was he doing? This wasn't right; it couldn't be good; all of this delicious food had to come at a price. Obviously. I mean, a crazy, murderous, male maenad beat the shit out of him, chained him to a wall, stripped him naked, and was now giving him a free meal?

"Why are you doin this? And where are my clothes?" Dean silently entertained the idea that maybe he'd been violated by this freak, maybe even rap—no. That couldn't be. He shot a murderous glare at Caleb.

"Don't worry, we didn't do anything," he smiled, then added "much to my dismay. But that doesn't mean I can't look, does it?"

Dean dropped the piece of meat, his earlier hunger replaced by a sick, sinking feeling. "What do you want from me?"

"You both have your parts to play, Dean."

"Stop talkin in riddles, Willy Wonka. What do you mean?"

"You're really not in a place to make demands. We'll talk more later—after I've had a chance to speak with your _brother_."


	9. Chapter 9

**I just want to thank you ALL for reading and reviewing. I know these updates are taking forever, but I promise I will finish this story. I'm just super busy.**

**Warning...there's some nonconsensual kissing in this story, but no rape.**

* * *

"_You're running out of time."_

"_Yes, master. But everything is falling into place. I've got the older one in my possession."_

_Caleb watched as the muscular body in front of him drank from the glass, tipping it upward hungrily and emptying its contents effortlessly. Dionysus tilted his head back, throat open, as a tall blonde dropped a fig into his mouth, her naked breast grazing his cheek. Caleb barely resisted the urge to reach out and run his hand along the firm lines of his torso. He was beautiful. _

"_Is he taking it in?"_

"_No—he's refused."_

"_Bring him to me."_

"_Yes, master."_

The dim light of a dingy hotel room always had the ability to illuminate Sam's situation; had the ability to make him see things differently than he did on the outside, when he was in the middle of a hunt and his eyes were blurred from sweat and dirt and the heat of uncertainty. Sam was pretty sure if roles were reversed and it had been Sam that was MIA, Dean wouldn't have needed the respite; Dean would've known how to get to Sam. Dean would've wiped away the sting in his eyes with the back of his hand and charged in instead of wasting time sitting on a gritty sofa with his nose in a book doing research, which was exactly where Sam had found himself.

That wasn't to say Sam didn't think he was just as capable as his brother—he knew he was; they just had different styles. Sighing, he wiped away a stray hair, pulling it all back into a loose ponytail—so sue him, it'd been one of the first things he'd learned to do as a woman, since Dean had begged him not to cut the mess of tangles. Sam left it alone since he loved the roughness of Dean's hands as he ran his fingers through it, something he did almost every time he kissed Sam. Why did it feel like a million years had passed since then?

"I think I got it, Sam. If yer sure, that is."

"I'm sure, Bobby. No way Caleb could've got the jump on Dean."

"Well ya know I don't believe in coincidence anyway."

Satyr. Sam read the words, but he didn't make a connection. Bobby pulled the book away. "They're really the only thing I can find on male followers, but they ain't human—least not in the lore."

Sam shrugged. "Honestly, making one of those things appear human wouldn't be the weirdest thing we've ever seen. Or maybe it's a lot like werewolf and vampire lore—some of the facts are twisted."

"Could be."

"So what do we know about 'em?"

"Not much, honestly. I think our best bet is just ta treat 'em like the maenads."

Sam put a hand to his head. That really wasn't something he'd wanted to hear, though he couldn't imagine what _good_ news Bobby could've given him. Before he could allow himself to sink further into the pit of self-pity, his phone began to ring. He snatched it off the table, eager to silence the incessant shrieking, when he caught a glimpse of the caller I.D. _Dean._

"Dean! Oh my God, are you okay?"

"It's good to hear your voice again, Sam."

Sam squinted. _Not Dean._ "Where's my brother?"

"Sam—I feel really bad about what happened the last time we were together. Let me make it up to you. What do you say?"

"Listen you bastard, cause I'm only gonna say this once. Let him go—unharmed. If I see so much as a scratch on him I'll rip you apart piece by piece."

"Sound like you're gonna fit right in."

"Fuck it. I'm gonna kill you no matter what."

"Let's not get cocky, Sam. Remember who has the better hand, here. You don't wanna put all your chips on the table."

"Where is he?" Sam was not gonna play this game, not with Dean God knows where.

"In time. Now, I think it's time you and I meet for a chat."

"Do you think I'm stupid?"

"No, I think you're desperate. I know your weakness, Sam. We all do."

Sam bit back the urge to tell the guy to go to hell and hang up the phone. "Where?"

The drive was quiet except for the soft rumble of the engine and the _tap tap tap _of Sam's finger as it drummed against the door panel. His mind was busy running worst-case scenarios in preparation for the chance that this would all fall apart unless they got really lucky, which rarely happened. Sam was driving himself crazy with all the possibilities, and if he didn't stop soon he was going to rub a hole in the carpet with his shaking leg.

It wasn't ideal. Trying to reason with a creature that's probably not human, on unfamiliar territory, a man short, with machetes and no backup plan wasn't Sam's idea of a solid plan. It wasn't the first time they'd gone in half-cocked, and right now Sam didn't see any other options—at least not when Dean was gone, possibly and probably in serious danger, waiting for Sam to come and rescue him. Sam could think of a time when he would've loved it—the opportunity to save Dean, for Dean to be the damsel in distress and Sam to be a big hero, swooping in and rubbing it in Dean's face later. That's what younger brothers did, right?

Except that Sam wasn't _just_ the younger brother—not anymore; Sam was Dean's _lover_. Since they'd been 'together,' it was hard for him to see Dean the same way. Before they'd had sex he thought he knew everything there was to know about Dean, exactly what made him tick, everything that made him who he was; to an extent that had been the case. And even though nothing had really changed between them, everything was completely different; there was a pull toward Dean that was stronger than ever, a _need _for him that Sam had never experienced before—at least not to this extreme, and now the thought of something happening to him left a gaping hole in his gut big enough to ram several stakes into.

"Sam, we're gonna get yer brother back."

Sam didn't say anything, barely heard anything, but he managed to give Bobby a slight nod. It was more in acknowledgement that in agreement, an indication to Bobby that he'd heard him and hadn't completely checked out. He knew Bobby had to be worried sick about Dean too, but he was doing a better job of keeping it together than Sam was—or maybe Sam just couldn't tell right now.

"We're here."

A quick nod from Sam and they were out of the car, gravel and dirt crunching beneath their shoes. Sam curled his fingers tightly around the machete. The well-worn wood was comforting, familiar, but did little to sooth his stomach, which twisted and contracted with every step they took.

"Put your weapons away, gentleman. I don't think that's gonna be necessary."

Sam pretended he knew Caleb had been standing there, that his slimy voice hadn't seeped into Sam's consciousness and Sam had been aware of his presence all along. The fact that he'd been completely oblivious to the monster less than ten feet in front of him not only made him uncomfortable, but it could've easily ended badly—he could hear his dad's chiding tone in his head. Sam gripped his machete tighter.

"Where's Dean?"

"Don't worry, Sammy—your brother's safe. For now."

"I wanna see him."

"No."

He hadn't forgotten all of his training. The most valuable thing their dad ever taught them was an incidental lesson, one that had come naturally to Dean but that Sam had struggled with until he was older; to trust their instincts. In other words, in certain situations it was necessary to act first then think about it later. Sam never understood it, wasn't able to do it, not for years. Sam was a thinker. But now his muscles were fluid, swiftly closing the space between him and Caleb until Sam was on top of him, the cool metal of the knife pressed firmly against Caleb's throat.

This wasn't part of the plan. Caleb's body was warm and angry beneath him, cold, dead eyes boring into Sam's, unreadable. Sam's skin flushed a dark shade of pink as blood pumped hot and steady through his veins, making its way to the surface. He sunk the blade into Caleb's neck, applying a slight pressure until he saw a thin, red line emerge on the man's pale skin.

"Oh, Sam. I don't want to hurt you. I was under specific orders to leave you in one piece, but you're making it difficult."

"I'd be careful if I were you. I'm the one holding the knife here."

Caleb shifted underneath him, tracing one finger along the crimson line and bringing it to his mouth, licking it clean. "Are you?"

He'd had the wind knocked out of him twice; once when he was ten and fell out of a tree, landing harshly on his back, and again when he was sixteen, sparring with Dad, and he'd tripped and fell, rolling down a hill, landing back first again. It had been years, but it wasn't a feeling he'd forgotten.

Sam gasped, sucking at the air around him, trying to fill his lungs but failing miserably. And if it weren't hard enough for him to breathe, Caleb's forearm was like a steel bar against his neck, effectively closing off his throat. There was no overpowering Caleb. _Bobby was right about the strength thing_, Sam thought. So instead he fumbled with his right hand, groping desperately in the dirt, trying to reach the machete before he passed out.

"Is this what you're looking for?"

Caleb held up the weapon in his free hand, grinning. He held it high, examining the metal as it glinted in the desert sunlight. Sam was choking. He tried to reach for it but it was useless, Caleb's hand now bearing down on him tightly, until each individual finger pressed into his flesh painfully.

Instead he relented, focusing his last bit of energy trying to breathe. He didn't have the energy to think of another escape; his mind was buried under a thick cloud, his thoughts harder and harder to decipher. _What's gonna happen to Dean if I can't...? __**Thud. Thud. Thud.**_His heart was beating so hard he could feel it, and the pressure was so great behind his eyes that the only sensation he had was pain; a hot, gripping pain. It painted his world red. Red. Little red spots dotted his vision.

So this could be it—the end, the real end, followed by a pyre of flames, a few tears, and some murmured goodbyes. Sam knew when they went it wouldn't be pretty, wouldn't be peaceful, not like he'd seen on movies on heard people in hospitals whisper amongst each other in relieved anguish—"_I'm so glad he went peacefully." _No, Sam realized a long time ago it'd probably be bloody, painful, and if they were lucky, quick. But he wasn't _ready,_ not just yet...there was something he still needed to do, if he could just...

The rush of air into his lungs was an instant relief, pure and fast, and his body sucked it in hungrily like a baby's first breath. He sputtered and coughed, his body both relieved and overwhelmed at the unexpected gift. He hadn't counted on making it. He hadn't counted on ever breathing again. He hadn't counted on Bobby.

"That was a mistake, old man."

Then he saw it; the blood. It was all over Sam's face and chest, a disgusting sensation, warm and wet and brilliant all the same, because Sam knew it wasn't his blood. It was Caleb's. Bobby must've tried to decapitate him—_go Bobby, all or nothing,_ Sam thought. But Caleb had clearly been too fast and Bobby missed his target. Sam barely had time to register the sheer amount of it oozing from Caleb's shoulder before the man stood up, lumbering toward Bobby with a determined face.

He wasn't quick enough to stop it. Sam was still flopping around on the ground when it happened, unable to even scramble to his feet, let alone close the distance between himself and the assailant. No, he couldn't have made it. Instead Sam had to watch.

"Shit. Bobb...Bobby!" He managed to choke out, reaching out to his surrogate father stupidly, as if it made a difference.

No. Sam had to watch. And listen. He had to listen to the deafening _crunch_ as Caleb crushed the bone in Bobby's left arm like it was an old soda can. The machete fell to the ground and Caleb scooped it up, now fully armed with their weapons and clearly unfazed by his own injury.

"You really shouldn't've done that." Caleb raised one of the weapons above his head, ready to bring it down onto Bobby.

"Stop! Just...wait..just stop! It's me you want, right? I'll do anything. Just—what do you want?"

"I swore I wouldn't kill you Sam. I never said anything about him." He gestured toward Bobby, who was wearing a defiant look, but Sam saw through it. If they didn't get out of here soon, Bobby would go into shock.

"Please. I'll do whatever you want...willingly."

Jesus. What would their dad say? _We don't negotiate with terrorists—we don't grovel to the supernatural._ What had he been reduced to? It was wrong and it felt wrong, but he didn't have it in him to stop. His eyes were watering, the implication of what Caleb was saying paralyzing him, bringing out a part of him he was slightly ashamed of—but he couldn't lose Bobby. Dean would never forgive him; he would never forgive himself. Caleb just stared at him; he looked stupid and terrifying, coldly calculating whether or not it was worth it to leave Bobby alive.

"I know you need me. You would've killed me already if you didn't." Sam tried, switching tactics. I'll do it—whatever _it _is, if you just—let him go."

"Damn it, Sam!" Bobby ground out. Sam didn't have much time left before Bobby passed out—his face had already lost almost all of its color.

"I mean it. But if you...if you kill him...I—Well, I'd kill myself before I'd help you."

Caleb laughed—_fucking laughed_. "I think I like you better when you're begging. But let's just be honest here—you're _still_ begging."

He landed one solid blow to the side of Bobby's head, effectively knocking him out. Sam flinched but didn't say anything; it was better than Caleb chopping him in half, and it bought Sam a little time to talk his way out of this—hopefully.

"I told you, Sam, that I had the better hand. But here you are, all your chips on the table—can't believe you tried to go all in. You don't even know the stakes of this game." He paused, pulling a flask from his pocket and taking a big swallow.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Sure you do—at least you sorta do. I know you remember some of it. If you don't you're not as impressive as he said you were."

"Why me? I'm not special."

"I couldn't agree with you more, Sammy."

At this point Caleb had made it back to Sam and was kneeling down, his face inches from Sam's. He put his hand on Sam's thigh, rubbing circles with his thumb, and Sam had to fight hard not to punch him in the throat. Instead he leaned back, tucking his legs underneath his body. Caleb smiled.

"Sure you're cute—but there's more to it than that. It's those little abilities you have. Demons aren't the only ones who see your potential."

"What?"

"But they'll just use you up and for all the wrong reasons. My master, he—he's got it right. It's bliss, Sam. It's euphoria like you've never felt before, and he wants _you_ to rule alongside him."

Sam glanced at Bobby, who was still out cold. "I don't know what cryptic bullshit you're spewing. Just tell me what I need to do here. I want Dean and Bobby safe."

"Such a martyr—you boys, always willing to die for each other. To do anything for each other. Speaking of which, how did it feel doing anything and _everything_ to each other."

He winked, and Sam instantly knew what he was talking about. "You did this to us—you made us..."

Caleb laughed again. "Really, Sam? You know better. You can lie to yourself if you want to, but not to me. I can see inside your thick skull—deep inside that great big brain of yours. If it helps you sleep at night, keep tellin yourself that _I _did it."

"Just shut up."

"Hell, you've been aching for it for _years_."

"Shut up."

"Tell me how it feels when Dean fucks you. Tell me how much you love it. Cause I know you do, Sam. Just like I know you're worried he'll stop when you get your body back. _If _you get your body back."

He couldn't help it and he only sort of regretted it. His knuckles ached like he'd punched a rock full force, but the sight blood gushing from Caleb's mouth made it worth it, even if it was only for a minute. He knew he'd fucked up. He knew Caleb could kill him, but he also knew that Caleb _wouldn't_ kill him. It didn't take a genius to see how valuable Sam apparently was to these nut jobs.

"I love that fight in you, Sam. You know, Dean had a lot of fight too."

"You bastard, I—"

Caleb's lips pressed against Sam's furiously as his hand gripped the back of Sam's head, holding him there. Caleb tasted like wine and sweat and blood, and it was all Sam could do not to throw up in his mouth. Sam put his hands on Caleb's chest and tried to push him away, but it was no use. He forced his tongue into Sam's mouth, spreading the liquid across Sam's teeth. Sam bit down hard but Caleb only growled and continued to plunder Sam's mouth, licking and sucking and biting Sam's lips, bringing blood to the surface. It was like he was choking all over again.

When Caleb pulled away it wasn't far enough. Sam spit at the ground, wiping his mouth off with the back of his hand and smearing blood across his cheek. It was a thin layer and he felt it dry immediately, marking him—a reminder of what had just happened painted on his face.

"I guess I can see what your brother sees in you, Sammy. Such a warm mouth."

Before Sam had time to respond Caleb was on him again, his lips so close that Sam could feel his breath again. The bile rose in Sam's throat because the first time since he was a kid he felt helpless. Sam had no power over this situation, no way to fight it.

"Just tell me what you want from me, you sick fuck. What's your game?"

"It'll be easier for me to show you."

And with that his lips were on Sam's again. But this time it was different; it felt different. His head _hurt_ again. No, hurt was an understatement—it was agonizing, throbbing so hard that Sam was sure it was going to crack in half like a piece of the earth after a strong earthquake.

"_How could you do that to me?! I loved you...I still love you..."_

_A wedding ring being ripped off her finger...the professor slapped the man and walked out. _

Sam recognized her; it was the professor that was murdered...Elkins...

"_Professor Elkins..."_

"_Don't call me that, Caleb...it freaks me out."_

_He touched her leg...naked...they were both naked. She still had the ring in her hand, twirling it around...books everywhere, lying open. A fire...it was dark...outside, they were outside. _

"_Are you sure about this, Hannah?" Caleb smiled...her first name rolled off his tongue._

"_I'm tired of feeling like shit...I wanna be free, Caleb. Happy. Just let go of all of it, you know? Once in my life I wanna feel fulfilled...fucking ecstatic."_

"_Is that why you're screwing your student? I'm cool with being your rebound, but I don't know about this...will it even work?"_

"_Yes..."_

_Blood...everywhere...Elkins husband...his heart in her hands, literally. A ritual...Caleb and Elkins chanting...Latin._

_Outside again...daylight...the middle of nowhere..._

"_He needs his sacrifice and he needs his queen."_

"_How's this being free, Hannah? I feel like his slave."_

"_We just have to follow him, Caleb. Then he'll grant us peace...happiness."_

"_Where do we even look?"_

"_We have specific orders...there's a man...Winchester. He's got the energy...the psychic power within him to be the balance for our Master." _

God his head...why him? Why did Sam have to deal with this shit? He wasn't sure how much more of this he could take...That's why she came to the casino...that's why she sucked them in. She was the woman who helped start this...

_Women drinking wine...ripping limbs off babies...tearing thick branches off trees..._

The wine...the wine must've given them their strength...the essence of Dionysus. Bobby was right.

_"Come on, Sammy. Don't let that bitch get to you. Wake up!"_

_Dean...tied up...in pain._

"_You bitch! Just let him go."_

"_You should've just given in to it when you had the chance. You just had to say yes, that's all."_

"_You keep saying that. What the hell are you talking about?"_

"_Ecstasy."_

Said yes...So Sam and Dean must've said no to that whole...mating...queen...thing.

Caleb pulled away and stared at Sam. The searing pain was gone, as if Caleb held the source in his fingertips and he was merciful enough to relieve Sam. But still, his brain was prickling, like tiny needles jabbing him in all different places. It was as if his brain had fallen asleep and now the blood was rushing back in to wake it up. It almost made sense to him now...almost.

"Why didn't you just take us then?"

"Because...you have to agree to this on your own free will."

"Free...free will?" Sam panted. "You call this free will?"

"So you needed a little coaxing. Besides...you have other options."

"Like what?"

"You are the chosen one, but...if you don't want to be the queen, you don't have to be."

"That easy, huh?"

"Sure. You just have to make a blood sacrifice. But the blood has to be yours."

"So you'll kill me?"

"No...we just need someone of your bloodline."

"Dean..."

"Bingo. You _are_ smart, Sammy."

"Why turn me into a woman? And why drag this shit out."

"Well you can't very well be his queen if you're a _man_, now can you? Read up on your history, Sammy. Dionysus loves a good gender bender."

"That still doesn't answer my first question."

"It wasn't the right time. We needed a full moon. It had to be tonight—we were just biding our time. Besides, totally gave you some time to get comfortable in your own skin, right?"

"Why did you kill her?"

"Who?"

"Hannah. Elkins."

"She'd served her purpose. Master's orders."

"But she helped summon the bastard."

"And her sacrifice has not gone unnoticed, Sam. But we all have to make sacrifices, don't we?" Caleb looked over at Bobby. "Oh, and Sam—if I were you, I'd get him to the hospital. His wounds are starting to smell."

Sam didn't know what to say to that, so he didn't say anything. It was him or Dean. Civilians or family. And if he picked Dean, it was untelling how many innocent people would die after this—what kind of monster Sam might become. But right now...right now he needed to take care of the rest of his family. He'd worry about the details when he got out of here.


	10. Chapter 10

**Thanks for reading and reviewing! You're all amazing :D I forsee 2 to 3 more chapters :)**

* * *

"Jesus...Bobby."

There was no answer; Sam hadn't really expected one, but damn he really wished he'd gotten one. Instead Bobby's head bobbed up and down every time Sam tugged on his limp body, like he was perpetually saying _yeah, Sam, I'm fine._ Oh, if only.

Sam was doing his best to move quickly across the asphalt and avoid hurting his friend even further, but it was exceedingly difficult. He thought back to the handful of times he'd picked Bobby up—once when he'd passed out and once when he'd fallen out of his wheelchair (Bobby hadn't been too happy about that one), and he didn't remember his body being that heavy. Sam cursed his own smaller body as he shuffled Bobby through the double doors.

It didn't look good. There were voices all around him and he couldn't make everything out, only a few words slipping past his defenses—_seizure, hematoma, hurry, dangerous. _He opened his mouth, needing desperately to know exactly where they were taking Bobby, what they were going to do with him, and if he was going to be alright, but nothing came out. He just stood there, mouth agape, unable to even take a breath when he felt a cool hand on his shoulder.

"Mam?"

Sam watched as Bobby's unconscious form was wheeled away from him. _Seizure, hematoma, hurry, dangerous._ Bile bubbled and churned deep down in his stomach, rising slowly, burning his throat. The shock of it caused him to cough violently until he was shaking. Sam put his hand on his mouth in a feeble attempt to prevent the awful liquid from escaping between his lips, to keep his guts from spewing out, but he should've known better because could already taste it, slick and bitter on his tongue. His body retched and heaved until he was on his hands and knees, his insides spilling out all over the shiny tile.

He stayed like that until the gagging stopped, until he was in control again—weak, but in control. Sam tried to stand, to put some distance between him and the thick puddle on the floor in front of him, but he couldn't get his legs to cooperate. The vomiting had stopped but he was still trembling.

"Mam?" The voice repeated.

"I'm okay." He coughed again but there was nothing left, just a dryness in his mouth and throat.

It registered that someone was helping him up and he knew he was moving, but he didn't know who and he didn't know where, and he didn't have it in him to ask. Instead he let himself be led down a long hall and into a room, like a small child tagging along behind their parent. They sat him on an examination table and Sam laid back, closing his eyes against the harsh glare of the overhead light.

At first it was like he was in the middle of a watercolor painting—he recognized the shapes and colors for what they were, but it was all a blur. There was a needle in his arm, a mention of fluids, the word _shock_, and people in and out of his room, but they had stopped trying to talk to him, at least for the time being.

He didn't know how long it'd been when the lines started to get shaper, clearer. But it was starting to feel more real now and that made Sam want to throw up all over again. A petite nurse came in, obviously registering the change in his demeanor, and smiled sweetly.

"Feeling better, sweetie?"

Sam managed a nod in her direction.

"Bobby—he—I need to see him."

"I'm sorry but he's not able to receive visitors right now."

She moved beside him, looking him over gently and jotting a few notes down on her clipboard. "The doctor will be in to see you momentarily." She looked at the machines hooked up to him and then back at Sam, her smile never faltering. "But I need to get some information from you first."

Sam rubbed his hand against his forehead. He paused when he noticed the sleeve of the hospital gown hanging loosely around his wrist; when had he been undressed? Did he do it himself or did the nurse help? How had he allowed himself to get so out of sorts? It didn't matter.

"I don't have time for that," he said, sliding off the bed.

"I'm sorry, mam, I have to insist."

Sam didn't want to hurt the nurse. She was nice enough, but she was also the one thing standing between him and Bobby—well, her and his 'no visitor' policy. Sam groaned. Pushing a nurse would probably get him arrested or sedated or both, and none of those options would get him any closer to seeing Bobby or getting Dean back. He'd have to play ball, at least for now.

He settled back down onto the examination table. "What do you need?"

"There'll be paperwork for you to fill out later, but for right now I still need some information about you and the man you brought in."

"My uncle."

"Pardon?"

"He's my Uncle. His name is Bobby Garner."

"Right, thank you. What's your name?"

"Sam."

"Full name, please."

"Samue—Samantha Garner."

"Age?"

"Twenty-five."

And it went on like that forever; she checked his blood pressure; took down his height and weight; asked him if he was on any medicines or had any allergies; asked him about his diet and if he drank or smoked and how often, and on and on and on until Sam thought about ripping the IV out of his arm and stabbing her in the eye with it.

"When was your last menstrual cycle?"

"Excuse me?"

She raised a brow, pausing to look up from the clipboard. "Your last menstrual cycle—when was it and what was the duration?"

"I, uh, er,"

_Okay, Sam, you sounded like an idiot just now. _He wasn't expecting this, but duh, of course typical women had menstrual cycles, and duh, this was a normal question—for a woman. He remembered going with Jess to the hospital once and they'd asked her pretty similar questions, but even then he wondered what the hell a menstrual cycle had to do with her sudden onset of shingles.

"About a month ago," he lied. Truthfully, he hadn't thought about having a period. How long had he been a woman? He calculated—yeah, approximately five weeks. Shit, if he didn't change back, would he have to deal with _those_? This was ridiculous to be thinking and talking about...

"Duration? And was it typical?"

"Yeah, uh, normal. Like...six days, I think."

Her eyebrow went up again, but her pencil flitted dutifully across the paper. "Are you sexually active?"

"What? What the hell does this have to do with anything? I need to see my uncle, _now._"

"I understand that, Samantha, but we need to make sure you're okay too. You had a lot of blood on you when you came in and you got sick all over the waiting room."

"It's Sam. And it wasn't _my _blood. And I fail to see what that has to do with my menstrual cycle and sexual history."

"Well, Sam, they're standard exam questions."

He looked back at the IV again. Still tempting. "Damn it. Fine. Yes, sexually active. Only one partner for the past six months." Sam hadn't realized it'd been so long since he'd been laid before he and Dean went at it.

"Did you use protection?"

Sam looked at her, considering the question. Protection. Sure, they'd used protection—most of the time. "Mostly."

"Are you on birth control?"

"Well, no—"

There went that smile. It slid off her face like melting snow, replaced by a tight-lipped frown. "That's all I need for now. We took some blood from you earlier to run some tests. We'll let you know when the results are in."

"What kind of tests?"

"We scan for a lot of things; it's precautionary. But based on your sexual history we'll also do an STD and pregnancy test as well."

_STD? Pregnancy? What the fuck?_ There was not even the remote possibly that Sam could be pregnant, harboring some little parasitic alien in his completely fucked up and temporary movie prop of a _uterus. _No way. And with everything going on in his world right now there was also no way he was even going to entertain that ridiculous notion. Underneath these breasts he was still a _man_ for fuck's sake.

"Whatever. Can I see my uncle now?"

"The doctor will be in shortly, you can ask him then."

The appearance of the doctor only served to further irritate Sam. It was just more stupid questions that he didn't have time for, along with a lecture about feminine health and how important it was to be cautious during sexual activity.

By the time Sam had had enough, the doctor finally allowed him to talk about Bobby, and _finally_ gave him some information on what they were dealing with—intracranial hematoma and a pretty nasty comminuted fracture in his arm. Luckily Sam had gotten there in time and they were able to drain the blood from his brain, though the doctor was unclear of his rate of recovery or anything else Sam had asked him. I didn't matter though—he was just glad Bobby was going to be okay.

An hour later the tests, nurse, and doctor were forgotten. He was sitting beside Bobby's bed, gripping his hand tightly with the hope that Bobby might squeeze back, let him know he's gonna be all right, that Sam wasn't too late. But of course Bobby didn't reassure him. Bobby was still unconscious. And Dean was still gone. And now he was alone, left to clean up an entirely new, off the charts, ridiculous mess of crazy that only a Winchester would ever find himself in.

"Don't worry, Bobby. I'll take care of this. I'm gonna get those bastards if it kills me."

_"I'm gonna kill you all."_

_The rope shifted against his wrists as he was tugged forward, a sudden yank bringing him to his knees and face to waist with The Chosen One himself. Dean refused to allow himself to feel like a dog on a leash or slave on a chain; no, he was a temporary prisoner, sure, and this wasn't ideal, but Dean had been in worse scrapes than this and survived. Besides, they didn't have Sam or Bobby, so there was still plenty of hope for back up._

_Dean eyed the monster in front of him. The freak let out a full-bellied laugh, as if Dean's threat did nothing to intimidate him. Dean answered with a grin of his own, full and fake, riddled with disgust and chalk full of a promise that Dean would, in fact, kill them all. It might take him longer than he'd like, and it might not be the way he would've done it given the choice, but he'd still get the job done—and head's would roll. _

_"You know, it's almost a shame it wasn't you instead of your brother. Oh destiny."_

_"Stay away from my brother, Shao Kahn."_

_"Hilarious, as always. And...territorial? You always were, though—even when he wasn't a hot piece of ass."_

_Before he could respond he had a face full of ugly staring at him. How did these things move so quickly? Dionysus rubbed his cheek softly, and Dean struggled harder against his bindings with no avail. "You know, Dean—you don't have to worry, not really. I'm not going to hurt him, or you, actually. I've got plans for both of you."_

_"That's real nice, but if it's all the same to you I'd rather skip the foreplay. I just want to know what the fuck is going on here and why my baby brother is so important to you winos."_

_Suddenly the gentle hand on Dean's cheek was a fist in his mouth, and it knocked him back so fast and so hard he barely registered that it'd even happened. Dean was still so sore he hadn't been sure he could really feel any more pain—he could. In a second that body was on top of him again, licking his lips, pulling him back up._

_"Sorry—I just got a little angry there for a second. You understand, right?" He pulled Dean back into a sitting position, but really Dean just wished the asshole would've left him on the ground. "But you know what? If you're a good boy, you won't have to be jealous."_

_"What?"_

_"I'll share him with you. It wouldn't be very nice of me not to, considering you're the one that's gonna bring him to me."_

_Dean's lip hurt. His body hurt. His head hurt. And now his brain hurt, because he had absolutely no idea what was going on here, and that made him more uncomfortable than being tied up ever did—know your enemy. But right now Dean's knowledge and understanding of this situation was about as adequate as a single condom in a whore house—just not enough._

_"Don't hurt yourself, Dean," he said, pointing to his head. Dean wanted to be offended but he just didn't give a fuck._

_And then Dionysus was on him, like, on top of him, gripping him by the shirt collar and pulling Dean's face impossibly close. So close, in fact, that Dean could smell the wine on his breath. And that was it. Dionysus was kissing him then—his stubble rubbing harshly against Dean's own, and for a second Dean just wanted to throw up._

_But then—_

_It was _sensational. _Mesmerizing, in fact. It was like tasting pie and Sam's lips and expensive scotch all at the same time and Dean wanted to hate it, wanted to spit it out, but he was fucking savoring it like it was his last Christmas. He couldn't fight it—and he was starting to not care, to forget himself in this moment because he'd never been so happy._

_It was beautiful._

It hadn't been hard to get out of the hospital; he'd climbed out Bobby's window and into the parking lot before the doctor even knew he was gone, which was perfect, because the idea of sitting through any more tests or results or lectures was enough to make him homicidal. He broke into the closest and crappiest looking car he could find, wishing all the while that things had gone differently. That he maybe for once they could've had luck on their side. Nope. Now Sam just knew that he needed to get to Dean. He needed to kill Dionysus. He needed to set this mess right.

Just how he was going to accomplish all this he didn't know, but that was all he thought about all the way back to the hotel room. There was one pro: he still had the stake. The major con though, was just how was he supposed to get it past all the maenads? There was no way Dionysus would be flying solo that evening. And, to top it off, he didn't have the element of surprise any more.

"Oh my God..." He had to be hallucinating. Had to be. Because the body sitting there on the bed was too familiar, too real, and a complete impossibility.

"Heya Sammy," Dean all but whimpered, clutching at his side desperately.

"Dean!"

And that was all he needed to be sure—the sound of that voice, the one he hadn't heard in ages, was enough to make it real. Sam figured he looked like an idiot, but he didn't care. He _flew_ across the room and into Dean's lap like he was a starving zombie and Dean was a plateful of brains just begging to be eaten.

Sam ignored the groan that escaped his brother's lips, instead focusing on how brilliant it was that they were together again, flesh on flesh, warm and real and comforting. And Dean must've felt the same way because he wrapped his arms around Sam and oh God it was heaven, like his own personal security blanket. Dean tucked Sam's head underneath his chin, and he was glad Dean couldn't read his thoughts because he was fucking _gooey_ on the inside, melting with joy and relief and happiness.

"Sammy," he whispered, and his breath was warm against Sam's hair.

And Sam slowly started to come down, like an addict losing his high, but he was at least left with a pleasant buzz. "Dean? How did you—are you...okay?"

"Good as new."

But when Sam pulled away it was obvious Dean was anything but—his bottom lip was extra puffy and red, inflamed, like it had been smashed by a pretty impressive fist. In fact, just a quick glance at Dean and someone could've mistaken him for a civi who'd gone three rounds with a pissed off poltergeist. His right eye was almost swollen completely shut, and his left one had a purple and black ring all the way around it, which extended all the way down his jaw.

But at least he was solid.

Here.

In one piece.

Sam reached up and brushed Dean's cheek lightly with his lips. Dean stiffened slightly but didn't move, just gripped Sam a little tighter, nestling him a little deeper onto his lap. There were so many questions to ask, so many explanations to give, but Sam couldn't bring himself to move or speak. He just wanted to sit there, Dean holding him close and tight, and never let go.

It was funny; a little over a month ago a picture like this would've been ludicrous. Hilarious. They weren't exactly touchy-feely, but it did happen on occasion—hugs, etc.—and typically only after a tragedy or separation or close call. Sam guessed this counted as a close call, but still—it was different. It was more intimate with Dean now, and it was more often. And, what the hell was Sam gonna do when that changed? When he didn't have it anymore? Because he knew that once he changed back, things definitely weren't going to stay the way they were right now.

"Sammy?"

"Hmm?" He welcomed the interruption of his thoughts.

"Where's Bobby?"

"Hospital. But he's gonna be okay."

What happened while I was gone?"

Sam explained it all, in detail, right up to the part where he came back and found Dean sitting on the bed. Dean just listened—he didn't even interrupt with bad jokes or a perfectly-timed 'son of a bitch.' He just looked thoughtful, like he was absorbing it all and sorting it out, possibly forming his own idea of what to do next. Sam didn't wait for a response.

"So, uh...how'd you get away? From Caleb?"

"Luck. He got sloppy. Left me downstairs near some broken glass and I was sawing through the rope he had me tied up with. When I thought the coast was clear I booked it."

"Do you wanna...talk about it?"

"No. I just wanna kill the son of a bitch. And his boss."

"Yeah, I know what you mean. But," Sam said, running his hand down Dean's chest, "are you really in any shape to fight right now? I mean...even against just _one _of 'em me and Bobby didn't really stand a chance. How are we gonna gank all those maenads and Dionysus himself? They'll rip us to shreds before we can even get close."

"Maybe. Maybe not. What choice do we have?"

"I dunno, Dean. They're pretty damn serious about this...about me."

"I know...they told me everything, too. Which was their mistake."

"Huh?"

"Don't worry, Sammy. I've got a plan."


End file.
